


colder than this home

by cryoreal



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cousin Incest, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon was raised in Dorne, Slow Burn, but still a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-12-17 04:26:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 56,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11843907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryoreal/pseuds/cryoreal
Summary: On the way to the capital from Winterfell, the Starks and the royal family are sent an honor squad of Renly Baratheon, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Jon Sand, a Dornish bastard who has been sent to be the sworn shield for Joffrey’s betrothed. As the prince and future princess settle in at King's Landing, a certain Dornishman will be settling in as well.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Halsey's "Control."
> 
> I've aged up the characters in this story just to make myself more comfortable, so Sansa is 17, Jon is 20, and Joffrey is 19. Happy reading!

Sansa stepped out of their wheelhouse, her hair a flashing tumble of copper around her shoulders as she breathed in the bright, cool air. She was practically bouncing as she made her way around the camp, ecstatic to be in the Riverlands after so long camped in the Neck, where the damp air made her feel sticky and claustrophobic. Here, she could wear her hair down in the Northern style without feeling it clumped on the back of her neck in messy tangles that would take her handmaiden an hour to work out that night. Here, she could ride her mare down the Kingsroad without jolting as she pulled her hooves out of the mud and muck. Here, she could finally breathe again.

“My lady!” Joffrey was heading her way, and the bounce in her step only intensified. She wasn’t as obsessed with the South as she was as a young girl, but her father’s unwillingness to allow her to marry had increased her desire to finally leave Winterfell and take up her duties, as she always knew she would. She was seventeen, practically an old maid, and her betrothed looked every bit the prince of her younger dreams. 

Sansa was older and wiser than she was at twelve, and she knew that looks weren’t everything. Her mother had taught her to look below the surface, as she had with Sansa’s father, and find the good beneath a man’s handsome looks. Sansa had only known Joffrey for a month, but she already knew there was no good in him. However, a proper lady knows how to do her duty, and so she smiled her most beautiful smile and curtsied low, ever mindful of her manners. 

“You may rise, my lady,” Joffrey declared. “How is my betrothed today? Are these river lords treating you well?” 

“Yes, your grace, I have been offered every comfort,” she demurred quietly, taking his proffered arm and falling into step next to him. Each day he liked to tour the camp, and Sansa went with him, the better to show the people their future queen. It had been Sansa’s idea, and at first Joffrey had protested loudly and often, until the queen mother had lent credence to the idea with a sideways look at Sansa. Since then, they visited the minor lordlings, knights, and freeriders every morning, and Sansa learned more about the ‘snake pit of the South,’ as her father called it, every day. 

On their way back, there was a small group of men gathered near the royal wheelhouse, and Joffrey pushed unceremoniously through the crowd until he and Sansa stood at the front, facing three knights kneeling on the ground before the king and queen. The first was clad in a suit of gold armor, with a prancing stag on his helm. The second was in the pure white of the Kingsguard, from his boots to his glistening cloak, held around his throat with silver fastenings. The third was long and lean, in black armor that matched the tumble of curls on his head. Sansa had never seen such a fearsome trio. 

Joffrey made to stride forward to his father’s side, halted only because Sansa was frozen on her feet. The third knight’s eyes had slid upwards from the dusty ground to meet hers, and he smirked at her silently before returning his gaze downward in deference to the King.

“Come forward, Lady Sansa. These three won’t bite.” Joffrey laughed and tugged at her arm, pulling her into place beside him to King Robert’s left. 

“You may rise,” Robert rumbled. “Meet your future queen, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Ned’s oldest girl.” 

“Pleased to meet you, sers.” Sansa dipped into a curtsey again, yet not as deep or as long as the one she gave Joffrey. She had already met with his temper once when they stumbled upon her sister Arya near the Red Fork, and the slap he had given her was enough to make her realize that she was no longer in the North. 

“Lady Sansa. My name is-” 

“Ser Barristan Selmy,” she finished for the knight in white with a small smile. 

“Forgive me, my lady. Have we met?”

“No, ser, forgive me for assuming. I saw your white armor, and I simply came to a conclusion.” Joffrey was looking at her with a mix of pride and irritation, and she decided to be more careful with her interruptions. 

“Can you name me, then, my lady? Ser Barristan is rather recognizable.” The knight in green jested, and Sansa laughed lightly. “You’re clad in gold armor, with the royal sigil on your helm. Our good king Robert has only two brothers, and by your extreme youth, you must be Ser Renly.” 

“You’ve made it far too easy for her, Renly,” the third knight called, and Sansa’s gaze found his again. His eyes were a dark grey, almost black, and his dark curls were obscenely long, brushing his shoulders when he turned. “If you can put a name to me, then we’ll know you’re a force to be reckoned with.” 

“I’m sorry, ser,” she murmured. “I’m afraid you have no sigil, and your armor is far too plain for me to be sure.” She assumed he was Dornish by his bronzed, sun-kissed skin, but she didn’t wish to embarrass herself in front of her betrothed. Joffrey seemed to be pleased that her knowledge had run dry, and he declared, “Ser Jon Sand, a Dornish bastard in the service of my uncle. Why are you here, by the way?” His tone had grown blunt by the end, and Sansa curled her toes in her shoes. 

“I was under the impression you needed a sworn sword for Lady Sansa,” Jon’s voice was smooth, barely affected by the usual Dornish accent. “King Robert sent word to Lord Renly, and so here I am. I was trained by Prince Oberyn, so you have no reason to doubt for your lady’s safety.” His grin was almost catlike, lazy and even, and Renly laughed out loud at Jon’s assuming tone. 

“The man spends a year with Oberyn and thinks he’s a Sand Snake himself,” Robert chuckled under his breath. “You’ll do.” 

“I think we’re done here.” Joffrey yanked Sansa’s arm a little harder than she expected, and she stumbled a bit, Jon Sand’s eyes following her as she regained her balance and ducked her head. 

“I don’t think I’ll require your presence for the rest of the day, Lady Sansa,” Prince Joffrey practically spit at her once they were out of sight of his mother and father. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you looking at that bastard. Remember that you are to be a queen.” 

“Of course, my prince.” Sansa looked down delicately, aware of Joffrey’s heaving chest and slightly reddened face. He curled his fingers into her hair, and she suddenly wished she had braided it in the Southern style, all too aware of how out of place she must have looked next to the queen with her intricate updos. 

He yanked her head up with his hand on the back of her neck, in her hair, and she fought the urge to whimper when a few strands came away in his hand. “Be ready to visit our men with me in the morning, Lady Sansa.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She curtsied low, and stayed down until Joffrey strode out of sight, her heart already hardening. She never noticed Jon Sand, just his face visible as he peered around a wagon, his brow furrowed as he watched his future queen bow low.


	2. Chapter 2

It was another week on the road until they formed up to ride into King’s Landing. Sansa was escorted through the gates with her father on her left and her sworn sword Jon on her right, immediately behind the royal family. Joffrey could not see her, yet she kept a meek smile plastered on her face as she waved to the commoners, ever mindful of the mass of eyes upon her. _Remember you are to be a queen,_ Joffrey’s voice echoed in her mind, and she pulled her spine up a little straighter and her chin a little higher and tried to keep her eyes kind. 

Ser Jon nudged his beautiful Dornish sand steed closer to her mare and leaned his head towards her. “You look an absolute picture of royalty today, Lady Sansa. A shame that Prince Joffrey cannot see you.”

“A boon that we cannot see him,” she muttered under her breath, and Jon chuckled, quietly so as to not give her away. 

“Careful, my lady. I’m sure your septa has sufficiently warned you about proper speech for a noblewoman such as yourself.” His eyes cut over at hers in a way that belied his light tone. 

“My mother has taught me the proper manners for a lady of my station and instructed me in the ways of a Southern court.” Her fingers tightened imperceptibly on the reins of her mare, and she asked suddenly, “I heard you spent time with Prince Oberyn. Did he teach you much?” 

“Much and more, my lady. I was raised in Starfall under the watchful eye of Lady Allyria, yet Prince Oberyn taught me much of the knowledge I treasure most. He’s a very cunning man, and I value the time I spent with him and his daughters greatly.” 

Sansa’s brow furrowed at that, and she worked to relax it to continue waving to the smallfolk without a grimace on her face. They were finally at the base of Aegon’s High Hill, and she ached to be out of the saddle. It was a long ride from Winterfell, and traveling with the king and his family had stretched it longer still. 

“How long have you been away from home, Ser Jon?” she asked conversationally. She knew that he was to guard her back at all costs, yet she knew almost nothing about the man. 

“It depends on where you call home.” He brushed a curl away from his eyes, and grinned at her in a way that almost seemed sly. Sansa didn’t know what to make of that. 

“Away from Dorne, then.” 

“About five years, Lady Sansa. Lady Allyria sent me to be fostered in Sunspear for a few years when I was twelve, where I spent time with Prince Oberyn and his girls. When I was sixteen, they decided I would be better off in Lord Renly’s service, and so I spent a few years at Storm’s End, a guard for Edric Storm. When Lord Renly decided my skills as a swordsman were being wasted on Robert’s bastard, he sent me to court to impress King Robert. He declared that I must be Jaime Lannister come again, and declared that I would be the sworn sword for the future queen. Only when he declared this, Prince Joffrey wasn’t betrothed yet, and so I was somewhat of a nuisance around the court for a year or so.” His grin became cheeky toward the end, and Sansa decided she rather liked his charm. She could have been stuck with Joffrey’s sworn sword, a hulking man with a terribly burned face, and she liked to look upon Ser Jon much more. 

“When were you knighted, ser?” Sansa usually did most of the talking, as people were often intimidated by her beauty and station. Here in King’s Landing it was even worse, since being betrothed to the prince drew eager glances from everyone of both low and high birth. Jon seemed to be the only one who didn’t look at her as if he needed to win her favor, and she rather liked the cadence of the slight Dornish accent he still harbored. 

“I was knighted by Ser Loras Tyrell when Lord Renly sent me to court. Ser Loras sparred with me himself and declared me more than worthy of a knighthood, seeing as I bested him more times than he’d care to admit.” Sansa’s laugh pealed out like a bell, and she was rather disappointed to see the gates of the Red Keep loom up before her. Although she was excited to find her new chambers and wash the stink of the road from her, she wished she could do it in Ser Jon’s company. 

Now that they were in the capital, there was so much to do and plan. She was to be presented officially before the court on the morrow, and her father was required to swear fealty to the crown again for their betrothal to be official. After that, Sansa was sure her life would be a nonstop whirlwind. Queen Cersei had demanded that the wedding take place in under a month, since Prince Joffrey was “ridiculously old to be unwed,” which she had declared rather unceremoniously over supper one night after a few glasses of Arbor gold. In that month, she had to prepare her maiden’s cloak, have her wedding gown ordered and finished in time for her to do the finishing embroidery herself, a detail that she had insisted on, and as a future princess and queen she was required to sit in on all of the wedding planning so that she knew how to replicate a proper royal wedding in the future. Sansa thought it was a thinly veiled excuse to push all the work onto her and off of Queen Cersei’s shoulders, but she would never say so out loud. 

“Ser Jon, I thank you for your presence today. I’ve never felt so surely protected as I rode through a peaceful city.” Sansa was finally the one to shoot him a cocky grin, and he made no effort to conceal his laugh this time. “It was my pleasure, my lady. I’m sure I will see you at the feast tonight celebrating your arrival.” 

A few hours later, she had taken a bath, directed a nervous young squire on where to set her chest of clothing, and selected an airy, breathable dress made of silk and linen to wear to the welcoming feast. It was the first time she had bared so much skin, but the capital was unbearably hot compared to Winterfell and she relished the idea of catching the breeze on her exposed arms and neck. 

She was seated in a place of high honor next to Prince Joffrey, and Jon was seated directly below her at a lower table. She picked at her food and smiled at her prince as warmly as she could bear when he paid any modicum of attention to her, but mostly her gaze drifted down to Ser Jon’s broad shoulders, wrapped in a black cotton shirt that did nothing to hide their definition. Inevitably, her mind wandered to his hands, which grasped his dagger deftly as he cut his meat, and then back upwards to his biceps, which were as clearly cut as his shoulders, and then… 

“Lady Sansa!” She jerked back to the present, where a red-faced, very angry Joffrey glared down at her. 

“I’m so sorry, my prince. What did you ask me?” Sansa’s cheeks burned as she realized all of the high table was silent, and Prince Joffrey seemed about ready to strangle her right there.

“My lady mother asked you a very important question about our wedding feast, and yet you were too busy _daydreaming_ to answer her.” His voice turned low and dark towards the end, and Sansa’s hands began to sweat. 

“I apologize, Queen Cersei. It’s been a dreadfully long day, and I suppose my mind is just prone to wandering.” Sansa tried to keep her voice light but properly regretful, and the queen simply waved her off with her wine glass. “It’s fine, little dove. I can decide on the main courses myself.”

“I would be delighted to help you tomorrow, Your Grace. I think I just need to clear my mind of today’s activities.” King Robert hadn’t even noticed the tension going on and Joffrey still looked ready to murder her at the slightest provocation, but she stood up anyway and bade them good night with a deep curtsey and let her skirts swish as she descended the high table’s platform.

“Let me walk you back to your chambers, Lady Sansa,” Ser Jon offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully. “How very chivalrous of you,” she murmured quietly, and he smiled that dark smile again. 

“It would be rude of your sworn sword to allow you to walk the halls alone in an unfamiliar keep. What if you got lost? Prince Joff would be queenless for another year at least while the king drank himself to death, and the all the realm would suffer the tragedy.” 

“I believe the only ones suffering this tragedy are you and I, ser,” she quipped, and their laughter filled the otherwise empty hallway. 

She kept a firm grip on his elbow until they reached her chambers in the guest wing, where she was required to stay until she was officially a member of the royal family. “Thank you, ser, for your accompaniment. Will I see you in the morn for my presentation to the court?”

“The queen says I am to walk you to the throne room. I think she’s secretly afraid that you’ll ‘accidentally’ lose your way and never show up at all.” 

“Gods willing,” she snorted, and his eyes were warm as he looked down at her. “Good night, Lady Sansa. I will see you bright and early, I’m sure.”

“Good night, Ser Jon. I promise you won’t have to drag me out.” She threw a wink his way, and his laughter replayed in her mind until she finally fell asleep, some hours later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter, and not as much Jonsa, but bear with me! I only get sporadic chances to write, so I like to post what I have when I can.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

When Ser Jon came knocking the next morning, she had already been up for hours. Her presentation to the court was to be an impressive event, and so she had been laced into one of her finest (and tightest) silk dresses, light grey for the color of her House with white lace panels in the sleeves and neckline. It had taken two of her maids three hours to braid and style her hair in the curling updos of the South and then adorn her at wrist, throat, and crown with pearl-encrusted jewelry. Sansa was afraid of her wedding and coronation, if so much decoration was required for her first presentation. 

Ser Jon was allowed in by one of her maids, and if he was surprised at her attire he didn’t let on. “Lady Sansa. Are you quite ready for the court?”

Her second lady maid slipped one last pearl comb into her hair, and Sansa rose from her seat, her head already feeling heavy with so much hair piled on top. She would have preferred twin braids atop her head, to retain some semblance of her family and heritage, but she must play at being the perfect Southron princess. 

“If I am not ready now, then I never will be.” Sansa took his arm and they fell into step together. He was in black armor again, with a dagger on one hip and a longsword on the other. 

“I look a right peacock next to you,” Sansa muttered, shaking a thick bracelet down her wrist. His armor was made well but unassuming, and she stood out like a beacon next to him with the sheen of her dress and her hair. 

“It is a bit much. We wouldn’t want the high lords thinking Joff was marrying a peasant, though, would we?” He winked conspiratorially at her and she chuckled and shook her head. The crowds were getting denser as they drew closer to the throne room, and every eye was on her and her ridiculously extravagant outfit. 

“You’d think they would have been taught not to stare at a lady,” she grumbled under her breath, and Jon’s eyes flashed with mirth. 

“I can’t blame them, honestly. You look a vision, Lady Sansa.” They had reached the doors to the throne room and Jon turned to face her, his eyes traveling up and down her form. “No one will doubt your future this morning, not when you look like this.”

“Thank you, Ser Jon,” she whispered, and the air between them crackled like an open flame. After a long moment, his mouth stretched into a slow grin. 

“You’d best get on with it. You know how Prince Joffrey doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

“Yes, and it’s my fault that he’s been waiting all these years for a bride.” She allowed herself one last eye roll and then composed her face demurely, lifting her skirts as the guards opened the doors.   
The throne room was no less lavish than she had imagined, every surface draped in Baratheon and Lannister tapestries, the walls lined with high lords and low, every one gaping at her as she made her way down the center of the room. King Robert was in place on the throne, a dozen feet above them all, with two of the Kingsguard flanking him, fully armed and armoured. Prince Joffrey was at the foot, clad in a golden tunic and a small crown fit for a prince and future king. He leered at her, even from so far away, and Sansa was careful to keep her expression relaxed and happy.

At the front of the room stood her father, ahead of the other lords but farther from the throne than was right for Hand of the King. Sansa wanted to frown at that, but she knew Joffrey could misinterpret any one expression, so instead she ducked her head in a deep curtsey, her skirts swishing the floor, and Joffrey himself came forward to lift her from it. “Rise, my lady,” he proclaimed in a loud, sweeping voice. 

Joffrey took her hand and led her forward still, until she was a mere five feet from the throne, craning her neck up at the king. She dropped to her knees, spreading her skirts beneath her carefully, and ducked her head, reciting the words she’d practiced in her chamber that morning.

“Your Grace, my family and I thank you for the great honor you have given us in joining our families together. I am loyal to Prince Joffrey and to the crown, and we are very grateful that you have chosen to gift us with this privilege.” _Not that you had any other choice of bride,_ she thought sourly, but she would not show her displeasure. 

“What kind words, Lady Sansa,” the queen finally spoke from her place to the left of the throne, several steps down. The king looked bored over anything else, and he gestured impatiently to her father, who came to Sansa’s side and knelt next to her. 

“As the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I pledge fealty to the crown again. We are deeply honored by this union and recommit ourselves to your great house.” 

Her father had never been a man of many words, and Sansa was grateful when Prince Joffrey pulled her back to her feet. She smoothed her hands on her skirts nervously, waiting for the king to speak again.

“Very well, then. The wedding ceremony will take place in a fortnight at the Great Sept of Baelor, followed immediately by the coronation.” At that, the crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly. Sansa felt like an ice cube had slid down her throat and settled in her stomach. A fortnight was much less time than she had assumed, and she fought hard to conceal her feelings of dread. 

“Thank you for your kindness during the ceremony, my prince.” She turned to Joffrey with a smile plastered on her face, hoping it read as genuine. He scowled back at her. “No less than my lady mother expected. You can meet with her to settle the details of our wedding.” He turned his back and walked away swiftly, and Sansa hated the idea of her marriage even more.

Her father now came to her side and cupped her shoulder with a wide palm. “You did wonderfully, Sansa.”

“Thank you, Father.” She wondered again why he had agreed to this match. Sansa would always do her duty, but her father was no idiot and could see that she and Joffrey’s personalities were not well matched. 

Not for the first time, Sansa thought with disgust about how women were treated as pawns for marriage alliances, and vowed that she would not be the same. _Once I am queen..._ If Joffrey was anything like his father, it would not be difficult to maintain some semblance of control over her life. 

Her father accompanied her through the halls in relative silence. In Winterfell, Sansa had thrived on routine, and so she was already working to establish some level of expectation for herself in the capitol. Every day she would visit the gardens and the godswood, the sept, spend a moderate amount of time on her sewing, and attempt to visit with the smallfolk at least twice a week. 

It was a heavy plate, but her father had often impressed upon Robb the importance of knowing his men, and Sansa would not deny her people the right to know their queen. _I will make them love me,_ she vowed, and her queenship would be all the happier for it. 

When they reached the godswood, they both dropped to their knees in tandem. The sept was more beautiful, and Sansa loved to sing the hymns along with the septons and septas, but the godswood felt more pure, more primal. The Old Gods were watching, and Sansa bowed her head in contemplation and prayer. The sept was wonderful, but she had come to love the gods of the North, and it was important to her that she kept faith.

She prayed for strength and for wisdom, for clarity on her situation. She had been ecstatic to go south with her family, to finally leave Winterfell and do her duty as a highborn lady, but the more time she spent with her future husband, the more she was filled with uncertainty and dread. His moods shifted with each passing moment, and Sansa had already seen enough of his ire to dissuade any feelings of warmth toward him. 

Sansa would always do her duty, no matter the cost. When she finally raised her head, she found her father already watching her, despite the fact that he sometimes spent hours in the godswood praying for guidance. 

“Are you absolutely sure about this betrothal, Sansa? It’s not too late for me to talk to King Robert again.” He looked unsure and nervous, and Sansa reassured him with her hand on his.

“I am a woman grown, Father. You’ve protected me for much longer than was necessary, and I am grateful for it, but it’s time for me to be wed.” She hoped her smile would assuage his doubt as he gripped her hand too tightly to be comfortable. 

“If you ever need anything…” His grey eyes bored into hers, and in slow motion, her mind replayed the fierce slap she had gotten at the Trident, the bruise that had spread across her cheek the next day no matter how much powder she put on it, and her heart hurt. 

“Thank you, Father. I promise I’ll come to you.” She gave his hand one last squeeze and headed back towards the castle, head held high.


	4. Chapter 4

As was to be expected, she barely made it halfway across the grounds before she was intercepted by Ser Jon, and in the back of her mind she wondered if he was following her. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and she watched a languid bead trickle down his neck and into his tunic.

“Lady Sansa. Allow me to escort you back to the keep.” His smile was genuine, and she couldn’t help returning it. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned to him with a sly smile. “Were you following me?”

“Mayhaps I was.” His smile was even more sly than hers. “Mayhaps I ran across the entire yard to find you, walking alone from the godswood, so that I could save your honor.”

“Consider it saved,” she teased, and clutched his arm tighter to her side. The sun beamed down brightly, and she could not imagine the day feeling any warmer. It was pleasant, but Sansa only wished to return to her rooms and strip down, discard her heavy jewelry, and unpin some of her hair from the top of her head. She had looked a proper Southron princess for the court this morning, but she wished to feel a little more Northern this afternoon. 

Court was a beautiful, magical place, but she felt eyes on her from every direction, and it was only intensified by the pearls that seemed to adorn her every limb. 

“I assume you keep to the Old Gods, then?” Jon broke her from her reverie, and she sighed quietly. “I do, but I also believe in the Seven. I keep to both faiths.”

“Two religions? How time-consuming.” 

She chuckled at that. “Yes, at times, but it is worthwhile. My father keeps to the Old Gods, and I believe in their silent strength. My mother prefers the Seven, and I find them to be peaceful and calming. They serve different purposes to me.”  
He was quiet for a long moment, before she asked, “Which gods do you pray to, Ser Jon?”

“I don’t keep to a religion.” His tone was slightly curt, and Sansa felt him pull away from her side slightly.

“I didn’t mean to offend, ser.” She ducked her chin and loosened her hold on his arm, feeling embarrassed for prying. 

“It’s quite alright, Lady Sansa. The gods have never answered my prayers, and so I did not find it fit to give them any of my time.” 

“That is entirely your choice, ser. I wouldn’t mean to impose my faith on you.” His entire body seemed to relax, and she pulled him to a stop in the middle of a deserted corridor. 

“I know that you are my sworn sword, and you will take vows to stay by my side. But when I am queen, I will have a member of the Kingsguard to escort me to the sept and the godswood. You won’t need to listen to them preach to protect me, Ser Jon.” 

His hand had come to cover her elbow as they stood there, and Sansa could feel the heat prickling upwards through her silk sleeve. She watched another drop of sweat slide down his cheek, and marveled at how full his lips looked, framed in the late morning light streaming in through the windows. 

When she finally dragged her eyes upward, his were staring at her intensely, brow furrowed just slightly, and she could see whorls of color in his eyes. She thought they were a deep steel grey, much like her father’s, but she could see a deep blue near the outsides, and towards the pupil what looked like a hint of amethyst, deep and pure.

A door slammed shut in the next hall over, and they both nearly jumped out of their skin. Jon laughed quietly and turned her by the elbow, resuming their walk toward her chamber at a pace that was almost too quick to be comfortable. As a result, she was staring at her door much too soon, and Jon Sand was bowing to her, quick and stilted, before he disappeared back down the hallway. 

Once in her chambers, she called a maid to help her undress. Once her hair combs were removed and her corset unlaced, she finally felt like herself again. She stretched catlike in her seat, dreading the future where she would be required to wear a corset all day long, when she would be queen in her own right. 

Her maid brushed her hair and Sansa stared out her window over the bay, reliving her silly fantasies. She had often dreamed of being queen as a child. She had always wanted to rise high in the world, but here in King’s Landing, looking out over the Blackwater Rush, she had never felt so small.  
Joffrey was a prince of the realm, and she would one day be queen, but being his queen held no happiness for her anymore. Whenever she thought about her wedding day, the image of his face in front of her made her stomach twist with nausea. 

When her maid had finally finished, she dressed herself in her lightest, simplest dress, one that required no corset or choking ties, and settled herself on a settee to sew. Her wedding dress was still being made, but she could work on her maiden’s cloak until her fingers bled, and she set herself to sewing more damned pearls into the direwolf she had stitched into the back when she was still at Winterfell.

She missed Winterfell more than she could imagine. She missed watching Robb play at being lord under Father’s watchful eye, and Bran and Rickon pelting snowballs at each other. She even missed Arya, even though she was in King’s Landing as well. Sansa had hardly seen her since they left home.

Arya preferred the company of the smallfolk, and Sansa respected her for that. She might be required to politick with the high lords, but Arya was not, and Sansa wanted her to enjoy what little time she had left before Father married her off as well. 

Several hours later, Sansa had pricked her finger four times and dropped the tiny pearls at least ten, and her frustrations were getting the better of her. It was hot and sticky in her room, even with the breeze off the bay, and she decided that a walk in the gardens would be the perfect remedy for the sweat running down her back. 

She was in the midst of plucking the perfect rose when there was a loud, throat-clearing noise behind her, and she whirled around in shock. Joffrey stood before her, the gold details on his tunic gleaming in the sun, and she dropped into her curtsey as quickly as she could, the tips of her hair brushing the ground. 

“Rise, my lady. What are you doing out here alone?” 

“I was simply admiring the summer roses, Your Grace. Aren’t they lovely?” She beamed her brightest smile at him, and he scowled in return. 

“You shouldn’t pluck flowers like a common gardener. Don’t they teach you anything in that wasteland you call home?” 

“We don’t have gardens in the North, my prince. I find them quite beautiful.” He continued frowning, his eyes traveling down and back up her form, and she realized that her dress was too simple for his tastes, chiding herself at once. _I am to be a queen, and I dressed for my prince like a common lady._

“Would you like to walk with me, your grace? The gardens can be so calming, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for his affirmation, and continued down the path, devouring the sweet scent of the rose. Joffrey could be cruel and he could be demanding, but he could not take this away from her.

After a long moment, he caught up with her and offered her his arm, seeming to remember his manners. She wrapped her fingers around his bicep, noting how small it was after holding Jon’s, how the muscles seemed underdeveloped, and fought back a grin. 

His face seemed to only get redder as they strolled through the rows, and Sansa was relieved when they reached the exit without a further comment from him. He seemed incensed about something, but Sansa did not wish to tempt his temper, and so with a sweeping curtsey and a murmured “Your Grace,” she departed to make the trip back to her room, her too-plain skirts swishing against the stones with the regality of a queen’s.


	5. Chapter 5

The next sennight rushed by in a flurry of dress fittings and long hours of embroidery, broken only by awkward dinners sitting next to her betrothed and her morning walks in the gardens. 

Ser Jon had taken to escorting her on those trips, and it was a welcome change from her first walk with the crown prince. He provided a source of comfort for her while her anticipation towards her wedding mounted, and on occasion he would pick a rose of surpassing beauty to pin in her hair.

She and her sworn sword didn’t share all too much in common, but they talked often on their walks, and Sansa enjoyed his company more than she ever would have imagined. She found a surprising kinship between them, and he protected her in a way she knew her father would be grateful for. 

She wished only that her wedding wasn’t so soon. Every moment that she spent in the prince’s company convinced her further that they were not suited, yet she dare not bring her complaints to her father. He loved her dearly, but the match was for the good of the realm. The worries of a young woman did not matter when the royal family was involved. 

It was just her luck that the day of her wedding was shadowed by rainclouds and thunder boomed throughout the Red Keep as her maids were dressing her hair. Rain was an ill omen, especially on a wedding day, and the servants eyed each other warily each time a new clap echoed around them. 

They had woken her at the break of dawn to begin preparing her for the ceremony, as it was to be a splendid affair no matter the haste with which it was thrown together. Sansa had traveled with Cersei to the Great Sept of Baelor the day before to oversee the decorations, and it was so lavishly decorated that she barely recognized the smiling face of the Mother and the Crone’s lantern under pounds of greenery and ribbons and tapestries feature the crowned stag of Baratheon.

Sansa stared at her reflection in the looking glass when they had finally finished, and although her hair was both intricate and beautiful, she hated it. She looked a proper southron princess, auburn strands piled atop her head, winding around each other save for a few twists near her shoulders. 

Her dress came next, and if she thought her presentation to the court was ostentatious, this dress was absolutely laughable. Every inch of the bodice had pearls of various sizes laced into it, the skirts were fuller than she could reach, and two younger Lannister cousins had to trail behind her at all times to carry her train. Her corset was laced so tightly she could scarce breathe, but that was simply what princesses must do. 

Her maiden’s cloak was finished just in time, but she draped it over her arm for the journey to the sept so that it could not be ruined on the trip. When they had adorned her with a silver tiara decorated with leaping stags and fiddled with the powder on her face one last time, it was finally time to descend the stairs to her litter and face her destiny.

Awaiting her at the bottom of the stairs was none other than Ser Jon, who looked as dashing as she’d even seen him in black silks with golden accents. Sansa couldn’t help the smile she broke into when she saw him, put together and beautiful. 

“My lady.” He bowed graciously, and Sansa fought the urge to giggle. “Your father Lord Stark has sent me to escort you to the sept, where he waits to give your hand.” 

“I’m sure he’s not as eager as you make him seem, Ser Jon,” she teased, and heat pooled in her stomach when his teeth flashed as he laughed. 

“He’s certainly not. I think he’s afraid he may not allow you within fifty feet of the place if he escorts you there himself.” 

“Then we shall thank the seven faces of the gods that he sent you in his stead. The smallfolk would revolt if they were denied a royal wedding after so long without one. How long has it been, ser?” 

“Over twenty years, my lady, and all the realm wishes to celebrate.” There was a strange twist to his face when he said it, and Sansa hoped she wasn’t imagining it. 

Jon graciously lent her his arm to help her into her litter, and when the girls had finally loaded all the fabric of her train in with her, he leapt up to sit across from her, taking care not to step on the silk and lace of her skirts.

The litter began its bump ride across the cobblestones, and Sansa could feel the warmth pouring off of Ser Jon in the enclosed space. 

“How has the capital been treating you, my lady?” His eyes were careful and guarded, yet sincere.

“Very well, ser. The royal family treats me with the utmost care and I am excited to finally be wed to Joffrey.” The practiced lie slid off her tongue with ease, and she was proud for sounding like she meant it. They had done her no great harm yet, but Sansa was not a naive little girl anymore, and she could see the tension and rage in Prince Joffrey’s eyes and arms whenever she poked too far. It would not be long before he succumbed, and once they were wed he would have no reason to hold back.

Jon studied her face carefully, and opened his mouth as if to speak, yet closed it in silence. Instead, his hand reached across the small space to grasp hers, and a calloused thumb rubbed the back of her hand softly, tenderly. 

His whisper was low enough that the driver could not hear. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Lady Sansa. As your sworn sword, you must tell me what I can protect you from.” 

Heat blossomed upwards from their intertwined hands, and she could feel a flush spreading from her exposed chest up through her neck. “Thank you,” she whispered back, and his eyes searched hers carefully, lingering until the litter jolted to a stop and he snatched his hand back from hers before anyone could open the door. 

Sansa watched him jump down in awe and trepidation. When she slid out of the litter, maiden’s cloak affixed to her shoulders, it seemed a hundred thousand people were watching her, pressed in on all sides besides where the gold cloaks pushed them back. A royal wedding, they had all warned her, but she hadn’t even realized the city held so many _people_.

Her little Lannister birds fluttered behind her to hold her train again, and she held tight to Jon’s arm as she ascended the steps to the sept, carefully holding her skirts with her free hand. Her father was waiting at the top, and Joffrey was waiting inside, and her heart sped up with something that wasn’t excitement and suddenly her hands felt clammy and cold. 

Ser Jon passed her off to Father with a courteous nod and she missed his presence, steady and warm at her side. “Are you ready, Sansa?” Her father looked tired and worried and so she smiled happily to assuage his fears, taking his arm as easily as she could. 

“I couldn’t be more ready, Father.” It was only half a lie. 

Several guards swung the doors open, and there must have been several hundred people packed into the sept, all eager to see her and Joffrey wed, to see a new crown princess being born. 

Sansa fought to keep her smile on her face as they walked slowly down the aisle. She didn’t recognize most of the lords and ladies near the back, but as they got closer she could see a pack of Crownlands families, quite a few Stormlands families, and Prince Oberyn of Dorne, who Jon spoke so highly of. 

Eddard Stark placed Sansa’s hand in Joffrey’s, bowing slightly to the prince, and she turned with him to face the High Septon, who glittered almost as brightly as she did.

All in all, the ceremony didn’t seem to take as long as she expected, and it appeared to be mere seconds before she was reciting “I am his, and he is mine.” Joffrey swept her direwolf cloak off with a flourish, passing it to her father before cloaking her in heavy black silk and cloth of gold, fastening the clasp under her neck with a gesture that seemed almost tender.

At the High Septon’s urging, Joffrey’s lips descended on hers, and she tried her best to return his passion despite the worms wriggling in her chest. When he took her hand and held it high, she laughed almost hysterically, trying to calm her beating heart and racing nerves. They would ride back to the keep together on horseback, where their reception would be held on the grounds outside.

At least she didn’t have to ride in that damned litter again, with Jon Sand staring at her with his full, pouty lips and defined jawline and steel-grey eyes that always looked at her like she was the only thing worth looking at. 

The fullness of her skirts required that she ride her own mare, at least, and so she rode sidesaddle the entire way back to the castle courtyard, facing Joffrey. He was smug and smirking in the colors of his house, a grand crown nestled in his golden hair, waving to the smallfolk as befit a future king. Sansa did the same, and touched their hands when she could, bestowed smiles and blew kisses when she couldn’t. 

Her husband was the one to help her off her horse when they arrived, his fingers digging into her sides a little too forcefully to be lovable. She beamed up at him and kissed his cheek, and the lords around them cheered and hooted loudly. 

Sansa followed him up to the pavilion where they were to take their meal, grateful that her father was to her left as the prince and his family was to her right. She gulped her first cup of wine down quickly, needing the liquid courage to make it through the first of many nights at Joffrey’s side. 

The prince had little to no attention for his new bride, and spent most of the night japing with the high lords and mocking his uncles, both of whom were shockingly in attendance. It wasn’t until after the first of the desserts were served that the men began to clamor, shouting for the bedding, and every drop of blood drained out of Sansa’s face. _The bedding._ How had she forgotten about the bedding?

She laughed and japed with the lords, all the while feeling colder and more scared. She would not show them how she felt. She was stronger than them all combined.

Ser Jon followed at the fringes of the pack, making sure that none of them overstepped their bounds and laid a hand on the crown princess. Sure enough, she was set at Joffrey’s chamber doors with her shift still intact, and his eyes caught hers as they shoved her through the doors, ringed with sadness, regret, and the slightest hint of anger. 

Joffrey was already inside when she shut the door, and although Sansa had never seduced anyone before, she didn’t know how else to approach this situation. She would not have Joffrey think he could push her around, yet she did not want his temper to flare.

The prince was down to his breeches already, and she quickly dropped her shift to the floor and laid down on the bed, resigned to what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter was not my favorite to write, but it had to be done!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, sorry! I was having a lot of trouble with it and I just wanted to put out what I had. Happy reading!

The sky was adrift with a million stars, and Sansa wanted to float with them.

She sat on a balcony in an unfamiliar room that was now hers, and she shivered with the clouds. Dawn had not yet arrived, but Sansa was there nonetheless.

She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin until the sun broke the horizon, and she was glad that this sight had not been taken from her. Sprays of gold leapt over the blue waves, and her hair danced with the breeze, copper to bronze. 

When it was sufficiently late enough, Sansa called for a handmaid who dressed her silently next to Joffrey’s snoring form, and went into what was now her solar to break her fast. She was a princess who would undoubtedly have business to do, and so she at least had her own solar, a place that was hers and not his. 

She ate quietly and quickly, aware of the sleeping castle around her. Sansa was sure that if she took a trip down to the kitchens she would find a world ablaze, seeing as the servants were up before anyone else in the city, but she enjoyed her solitude. She had had enough of polite society the day before.

With a sigh, Sansa donned a new cloak, clasped with a crowned stag, and made her way to the godswood. 

The Old Gods stared down at her, kneeling at their foot, and Sansa tilted her head back, eyes shut. The dappled sunlight felt nice on her face, and she felt at peace, at home. The capital was full of eyes, but here she was alone. 

Sansa turned around and rested her back against the weirwood’s great white trunk, letting her hair tangle in the rough bark. It smelled of home, of Winterfell, and Sansa longed to see her mother and Robb and Bran and Rickon, to brush through Lady’s fur again. Courtesy had dictated that the direwolves stay in the North after they had cornered poor Princess Myrcella near the sept one morning, and Sansa missed them dearly.

The sun warmed her skin, and Sansa had the smallest of smiles on her face. She pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders, and let her mind drift into silly fantasies, of her and Arya and their direwolves, playing in the snow and brushing their fur in tandem. 

It felt like only minutes later when she was shaken rather roughly, and her eyes popped open to find Jon, mouth wide, staring at her in apparent panic. 

“Princess Sansa. Sansa! Thank the gods,” he muttered as he dragged her up from the ground, clutching her slight frame to his before pulling back and shaking her by the shoulders again. 

“Jon? What’s wrong?” She was still at Winterfell in her mind’s eye, and it took a moment to realize her surroundings. “Is it still morning?”

“It’s nigh on midday, and we’ve been searching for you for hours. No one has seen you since before dawn! What on earth were you thinking?” His eyes scanned hers, and her cheekbones flushed. 

“I couldn’t sleep, so I came out here to pray. I guess I must have… fallen asleep,” and as soon as the words came out Sansa knew how stupid they sounded. It was her first day as princess, and the capital thought she had already run away. 

“Come on, then. Joffrey’s been inconsolable with rage, I suppose someone should show him that you’re alive.” 

Sansa almost scoffed. “How on earth could I be dead? Does he think that a common footpad stole into our chambers and spirited me away to slit my throat?” 

Jon spun to face her, and his fingers dug deeply into her forearm. Sansa noticed then his chest heaving, and his other hand shaking slightly. “No one knew where you were, Sansa! For all we knew, you were dead in an alley in Flea Bottom!”

She settled her hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly under her palm, and he calmed the tiniest amount. “Jon, I am fine, I promise.” 

“If I’m to be your sworn sword, you can’t be missing for hours on end without telling anyone where you are. How can I protect you if you’re missing?” His voice had smoothed from anger to tenderness, and his free hand had come up to toy with the tips of her hair. 

“Next time, I swear I will tell my handmaids where I am going if I am to go alone.” 

His fingers tangled into her hair, gentle but strong, and he tipped her head upwards to place a kiss on her forehead, soft as a summer breeze. “Let’s take you to the prince before he gives himself a hernia.”

“Maybe then he’d be more palatable,” Sansa grumbled, and Jon gave her a quick but searing look as he pulled her out of the godswood. 

She had smoothed over her hair and rubbed the wrinkles out of her skirt before Jon escorted her into the throne room. Prince Joffrey was pacing in front of the Iron Throne, which was conspicuously empty, and Cersei lounged to the side of it. Upon sight of her, his face reddened even more and Sansa immediately dropped to her knees, bowing her head. 

“Where in the seven hells have you been?” Joffrey all but screeched, and Sansa fought the urge to cringe. Instead, she picked her head up calmly and said pleadingly, “I went to the godswood to pray and I fell asleep. Please forgive me, my prince, I promise I will not do something so stupid again.” She clasped her hands demurely in her lap and returned her gaze to the floor, doing her best to appear contrite. 

“We were married in the light of the Seven, Lady Sansa, so I don’t understand why you need to visit those savage gods anymore. You should go to the sept for your prayers.” 

“You’re so right, Your Grace. The godswood simply reminds me so much of home. It would be a boon to me if you let me visit it while I am adjusting to the capital.” Her words were chosen carefully, yet Joffrey still seemed incensed. His pacing had not let up, and the lords in the room had begun to murmur ominously. 

“You are a princess now, Lady Sansa, and you must act accordingly.” Cersei had risen and grasped his arm, muttering into his ear, and he finally nodded angrily. “We will discuss these matters privately, Princess Sansa. You are dismissed.” 

Jon helped her back to her feet and she clutched his arm for support, swaying slightly as they exited the room together. It wasn’t until they had turned several corners that Sansa realized they were not heading to the royal wing. 

“Jon, where are we going?” she whispered under her breath, to no answer. His fists were clenched angrily, and his brow was furrowed as he turned them from one corner to another, finally flinging open a door to the chambers that must have been his, sparsely decorated and small. 

“I cannot let that absolute monster punish you for this, Sansa.” 

Sansa sighed, folding her arms. “Well, it doesn’t seem we have a choice. I know you are sworn to protect me, but not from this. Not from him.” 

Jon’s hands raked through his hair once, twice, before pulling her body to his. He felt warm and strong, and the muscles of his back rippled under her hands as she tucked her chin into his chest. 

“I’m sworn to protect you from everything. And I feel that I must.” His arms were wound tight around her, holding her close, and she could feel his breathing in sync with hers in the too-small, too-dark room. 

“You cannot.” She looked up at him, at the war waging itself in his eyes, and she reached up to play with a lock of hair hanging in his face before brushing a tentative finger over his lips. 

“I can try.” Jon whispered desperately. He tugged her closer so that he could brush his lips against hers, once, twice, as soft as satin. 

Sansa sighed, full of warmth in a way that the previous night had denied her, and she sank into his arms, opening her lips under his. He felt like sunlight and summer, and she was drowning in him. 

When he pulled away after a long moment, his hands tangled in her hair, Sansa knew there was no going back. 

“You must escort me back to my chambers now, before he suspects.” His lips were downturned just the slightest, and Sansa had to fight to urge to lay another kiss on them. Instead, she rubbed her cheek against his softly, feeling the scratch of his beard on her skin. 

By the time they had returned to her chambers, her heart had finally returned to a normal pattern, and the flush had departed her cheeks. She seated herself in her solar with a pair of stockings, needle, and thread, and braced herself for the coming storm.


	7. Chapter 7

Her needle was clutched tightly in her fingers when the door to her solar slammed against the wall with a bang, revealing her lord husband, his face less red than before but no less incensed. Sansa carefully schooled her expression into a calm mask, pretending to be enveloped in her work. “Hello, my prince. Did court go well for you this afternoon?”

“You know very well how it went,” Joffrey hissed, stomping across the room to stand in front of her. _He looks like an irritable child,_ Sansa thought, and her eyebrow quirked a bit. “The high lords seemed very pleased to see their future king. You looked quite dashing, as usual.” 

“This is not about my clothing choice.” His chest was heaving, and that familiar redness was spreading across his face. “It’s about the fact that my wife chose to embarrass me in front of all of Westeros.” He began to pace restlessly, and Sansa’s fears began to surface. She must act a lady, before her lord husband did something he may regret. He was a roiling raincloud, and she wanted to avoid being struck by lightning. 

“I’m so sorry, your grace, you simply look so handsome that I forgot all else. Crimson is quite your color, isn’t it?” His doublet was quartered lions and stags, the dark red seeping across the fabric along his collar and sides. “You should really wear it more often. You look so intimidating.” 

Her flattery was beginning to work, as she saw Joffrey’s steps slow. For whatever monster he was, he was at least a simple monster. “Court stresses you so, doesn’t it?” 

Joffrey had paused in front of the mantle, and Sansa unfolded her legs to join him there, the warmth tickling up her frame. She laid a gentle hand on his bicep. “I am your princess now, and I know that I have done you wrong by disappearing. I promise I will not embarrass you such again. I will be a proper lady and future queen for you.” 

He was looking at her curiously, but Sansa stayed her hand. He need never know that her promises were untrue, so long as she played her part. “Your Grace, might I have leave to visit the gardens? I swear to you I’ll be back by supper, and we shall dine together.” 

His brow was furrowed, eyes darting back and forth between her and the flames, but he nodded quickly. “Be gone, then, but don’t go alone. Make Ser Bastard go with you. He seems to be neglecting his duties as of late.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll send one of the servants to fetch him and I’ll wait until he comes. You are most kind.” She bent into a curtsey, noticing how his eyes followed her bust, and then swept herself out of the room and down the corridor, to where the servants kept quarter. When she returned to her solar to wait for Jon, Joffrey was gone. 

On their third turn through the garden, Sansa paused near one of the fountains with a sigh. They were deep within the foliage, and they hadn’t run into anyone as of yet, so she was fairly certain of their seclusion.

“Ser Jon, could we talk a moment?”

“You don’t need to call me ser anymore, my lady.” His grin was rueful, but he acquiesced when she tugged him to sit on a bench facing the fountain. 

“Then you cannot call me ‘my lady,’ either. Or princess, or your grace, or any of those ridiculous titles. Not in private, at least.” She could feel his thigh pressing into hers, and a quick ache rose in her belly.

“Not a single one of them?” Jon teased her gently. “What on earth am I to call you, then? Simply Sansa? It seems so short. You deserve every title I can roll off my tongue.”

She shoved his shoulder, causing him to nearly fall off the bench, and their laughter echoed through the bushes. “I’m being serious, Jon.” 

“All right, all right. No need to get pushy with me. What do you need to speak of?”

Sansa paused, unsure how to phrase her thoughts now that the time was at hand. “This morning…”

“Do you mean when you disappeared and we all thought you dead or missing? Not a pleasant time, that.” She pushed him again and this time succeeded. The look of utter shock on his face as he hit the ground caused her to cackle so loudly she thought the king himself might hear her in the Red Keep.

“All right then, you’re being serious. Speak, my lady. What is troubling you.” 

“After court this morning.” Sansa took a deep breath. “I would like to know what your plans are regarding...” she trailed off unsurely, and her chin lowered slightly. 

“Sweet lady.” Jon’s finger brought her chin up, and she loved the way it fit there, always pulling her right to his level. His voice softened, and he murmured, “I’m not sure what can become of us. You are a princess.”

“I am a princess,” Sansa repeated back stupidly, and she felt tears rise in her eyes. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ She could practically hear Arya chanting in her ear. 

Sansa fought the tears backwards, and thought of all the kings who had had mistresses, and public mistresses at that. When she was younger she thought that life was a song and all kings loved their queens like the Dragonknight loved Princess Naerys, but she had grown since then and the harsh reality was staring her in the face.

She felt warm fingers on her cheeks, brushing her tears away, and Jon’s forehead pressed to hers. “I don’t care that you’re a princess.”

Sansa’s chest and throat burned, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. “We could never be together, not in public. You would be my … paramour, at best.” 

“I don’t care about all that,” he whispered, and their lips met for the second time that day, except this time it was rushed and forceful, her fingers digging into his back to tug him closer, his mouth pressing hers open further to deepen their kiss. 

She moaned under him, his hands finding their way back to her hair to tug her head backwards, exposing her neck. He rained kisses down to her chest and she sighed, content yet needing more. 

When he finally pulled away from her, his lips swollen and red, she stroked his cheek slowly. “We must always be rushing, always looking around corners. Are you prepared for that?”

“I’m prepared for anything, so long as I do it with you.” 

“You know that Joffrey will have your head if he suspects anything at all?”

“Well then, I suppose we’ll have to keep him from suspecting.” Jon pressed one more bruising kiss onto her lips before pulling her onto her feet with him and beginning the stroll back towards the keep. “It’s nearly suppertime. Will you need to freshen up beforehand?” 

“Are you saying I don’t look presentable? I take offense to that, ser.”

His face had relaxed back to normal, and he chortled quietly. “You look like you’ve taken three turns around the gardens. You have leaves in your hair.” His fingers stroked her hair for a moment, coming away with a leaf green as summer grass. 

“I suppose I should tidy up a bit before supper, then. Would you mind terribly escorting me back to my chambers, ser?” They were close to the courtyard now, and Sansa loosened her grasp on his arm.

“I would be delighted to, Princess.” Everywhere she walked now, people bowed. It made her shift in her shoes, but she smiled politely when she saw them and tried her best to look regal despite her disheveled appearance. 

Once back in her chambers, her maid ran a brush through her hair and helped to smooth the wrinkles from her sleeves as Jon waited conspicuously outside the door to walk with her to supper. 

Her movements familiar by now, she took his arm and kept pace as they crossed through the corridors. She knew Jon would leave her at the door because tonight was to be a small, private meal, and she missed his presence already. When he bowed her through the door, a sad smile on her face, Sansa felt her heart crack just the smallest amount. She was a princess, and nothing they did would change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Dinner with her new family passed by in a dreary haze, broken only by the occasional shuffle of the servants as they took away a course and brought out a new one. Sansa smiled prettily at Joffrey’s comments, laughed politely at the king’s buffoonery, cooed over Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen’s antics, and only raised her wine glass a third of the time that Queen Cersei did. 

It wasn’t until a delicate dessert of spun sugar swans was brought to the table that a small tidbit caught Sansa’s attention. 

“... with a small retinue, Lady Margaery Tyrell and her brother Ser Loras,” Cersei was finishing as she picked at the wings of her swan. 

“What on earth does Mace Tyrell want to do with the capital?” King Robert groused. He seemed to always be at the end of his wits, Sansa observed, and so she toyed with her fork carefully. 

“Rumor is that he wants to offer his daughter to your brother, and is sending Loras as her escort.” Cersei nearly rolled her eyes, settling back in her seat with a sort of feline grace.

“Renly hasn’t married yet, and he’s five and twenty. I can’t imagine him agreeing to marrying Lady Margaery, not when he’s had his freedom for this long.” 

“Well, she will be here within a sennight either way. Perhaps Renly will finally consent, Stannis has been married for a decade now.” Cersei sipped her wine with flair, and Sansa admired how utterly disinterested she looked in a subject that she had brought up.

“I’m excited to meet Lady Margaery,” Sansa finally spoke, and every head at the table whipped to look at her. “It will be nice to have a lady companion in the capital.”

“How do you even know Lady Margaery will like you?” Joffrey snapped at her, and Sansa’s neck stiffened. 

“I would be happy to show her around court, Your Grace,” she addressed Cersei instead, coolly and calmly. “The capital is not always kind to newcomers, and I had such a wonderful experience when I first arrived.”

“How kind of you to offer, Lady Sansa,” she drawled in response. “Lady Margaery will be arriving with a passel of cousins, so it’s not like she would be entering the capital alone.” 

“Either way, I would be happy to extend a hand to her.” Sansa picked at her swan, hating the flush that rose in her chest at Cersei’s dismissal.

The table devolved into an awkward silence, until Joffrey stood from the table suddenly, his chair scraping along the floor. 

“I believe we are quite ready to retire for the night. Come, Sansa.” 

_He speaks to me like I am a dog,_ she thought disdainfully, but rose from her seat all the same. “Thank you, King Robert, Queen Cersei, for this lovely evening. Princess Myrcella, will I see you tomorrow for our ride?” 

Myrcella smiled gently back at her. “Yes, I’m very excited to be joining you.” 

Sansa curtsied deeply and hurried to the door, where Joffrey was waiting impatiently for her. 

“What sort of ride was Myrcella speaking of?” Sansa took his elbow, and they swept off towards their chambers together. 

“We are visiting the smallfolk thrice a week, Princess Myrcella and I. I believe it’s important for them to know who they’re serving.” _You can’t ask them to go to war for a lord they don’t know,_ her father’s voice echoed in her mind, and Sansa resisted the urge to sigh out loud. 

She had barely seen her father or Arya since they came to King’s Landing, and she had the feeling that Arya wasn’t going to last at court much longer. She absolutely refused to show up to feasts or at court, and spent all her time running amok through the city proper. 

Joffrey was frowning slightly. “Is that safe, for you to be out with the vagabonds?” 

“Ser Jon will be with us. I don’t see any harm coming to us, my prince. We only wish to talk to the people, maybe visit a few stalls.” Sansa kept her voice level and even, even when it wanted to hitch. 

“Ser Jon had best be honing his skills with a sword, then, or he’ll have me to answer to when my princess comes back damaged.” 

“Of course, your grace. We will be very careful, and Princess Myrcella will have the Hound with her as well.” 

“Well, at least I can trust that fearsome beast.” Joffrey flung the door to their chambers open, and stalked off toward his solar. “You can find some maidservants to help you out of that thing.” He gestured in her general direction before disappearing. 

“Yes, your grace,” Sansa muttered to nothingness before reaching back and untying her dress and corset herself. It took longer than usual, but she reveled in the unhindered expansion of her ribcage when it was done, and was even happier when she had retrieved all the pins from her hair. 

She stared into her looking-glass, tired and worn, and hoped that Lady Margaery was as kind as the singers claimed. 

* * *

Sansa was waiting for the stablehands to saddle her mare when Princess Myrcella arrived, golden curls bouncing around her shoulders. Sansa embraced her carefully. When she had pitched the idea of continuing her visits to the smallfolk to Cersei, she had agreed on the terms that the Princess Myrcella would also be included, but the two had barely spoken a word to each other.

“You look radiant today, Myrcella,” Sansa exclaimed. She was in a silk dress of green and gold, matching her eyes perfectly, and Sansa wondered how she hadn’t been married off yet. She was sixteen and surpassingly beautiful. 

“Oh, not so much as you,” Myrcella smiled back, calling for her horse as well. “Where is your staunch protector?” 

“Ordering the stablehands around, I presume.” Sansa rolled her eyes as both Ser Jon and the Hound came barrelling out of the stable, leading two horses each. They bowed in unison, helping the ladies onto their mares before leaping onto their own. 

“Where to this morning, Sansa?” It was a cooler day for the South, but the heat was still bearing down upon them, making Sansa wish that she had commissioned more dresses in the Southern style. She only had one that made use of the fashionable cutouts around her waist and belly, and even in that she was sweating already.

“Let’s make a trip down the Street of Steel. I bet the blacksmiths would love to fawn over our sworn swords.” 

The four of them made a formidable group. Sansa and Myrcella led the way, and the smallfolk clapped and cheered for them. They seemed the perfect face of young royalty, both beautiful and slim and cheerful, followed by the men who would cut down an army to keep them safe.

Sansa reined up at a stand selling hot pies, buying one off a young, fat boy for three times its worth and clasping his hand when he stuttered his thanks. Myrcella did the same at a shop selling sweetmeats on the next street, and by the time they made it to the Street of Steel, their purses were much lighter.

They dismounted as a group, tying their horses to a post. Jon paid a young boy to watch their horses with a silver stag, and they set off up the high street. 

The Hound and Ser Jon stopped at several stores, haggling with the owners over their armor quality and prices while Sansa and Myrcella enjoyed their treats, hanging back to watch them. 

“What a pair those two make,” Sansa mused, taking a bite of her hot pie. Where the Hound was tall and broad, Ser Jon was short and lean, and they looked like two sides of a coin. 

“A pair of fools, to guard two princesses that they cannot have.” Sansa nearly snapped her neck when she turned in fear. They had been so careful, so _careful_... 

And then she saw the wistfulness in Myrcella’s eyes, the way her fingers clutched at the stick of her sweetmeat. Sansa followed her gaze to their two men, and her heart crumbled a little. “Oh, Myrcella…”

“I know, I’m a fool. But Sandor has been guarding me since I was old enough to ride, and I’ve developed a fondness for him.” 

“Myrcella, you know that women in our position rarely ever get to choose.” Sansa laid her hand on Myrcella’s shoulder, and she turned to her sadly.

“Yes, I understand that I will be shipped off to my husband one day. But hopefully, Sandor will come with me, and it might be all the sweeter. Or more painful. It’s hard to know.” 

“Yes. It’s hard to know.” Their gazes turned back again, to the men’s forms as they turned over a bull’s head helm between the two of them, and Myrcella pitched the saddest sigh Sansa had ever heard. 

They rode back to the castle in a much different mood, although Myrcella tried her hardest to return to the giggling girl she was at first. As Sansa dismounted, she was greeted by a messenger, waiting patiently at the stables.

“Lady Sansa, your father has requested a luncheon with you.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I’ll be there shortly, let me just tell Princess Myrcella goodbye.” She hadn’t seen her father in a few days, and Sansa was overjoyed for the invitation. 

“Princess Sansa, it has been a wonderful morning. Shall we do it again soon?” Myrcella took Sansa’s hands in her own, and they embraced again. 

“I would love to, Princess. Mayhaps the day after tomorrow?” 

“That sounds fantastic. I’m sure I will see you again later today or on the morrow.” As Myrcella departed with the Hound, Jon finally came to her side.

“Ser Jon, would you accompany me to luncheon with my father?” Sansa asked formally.

“Of course, Princess. It would be my pleasure.”

As they strolled back into the castle, Sansa felt the heat sizzling between them. In an empty corridor, he muttered under his breath, “Do you know how difficult it is to ride through the city, staring at your back, and not rein up next to you and tell you how beautiful you are?” 

“I can’t say I do, ser.” 

“It’s bloody hard, Princess. We must do this thrice a week? I can hardly handle once.” 

“Yes, we must.” Sansa smirked, only the slightest bit. “The more the smallfolk like you, the less likely they are to call for your head in a moon’s turn. I would win their affection, you see.” 

“What about my affection?” Jon growled playfully, and he spun her into an alcove, just out of sight. 

“I believe your affection is already won.” Jon’s eyes strayed down from her face to her heaving chest, and his pupils dilated to twice their size. 

“See something you like?” she teased in a whisper, and he groaned softly before tugging her face to his. She was beginning to like their secret kisses, the passion and heat that coursed through her body at the thought of being caught out in the open with her hands twisted in his collar and his tracing shaky circles on her bare sides.

They stayed like that for a long moment, until he nuzzled his face into her neck instead, peppering kisses along her chest where her skin met silk. 

“My father is expecting me,” she whispered, dissolving the heat between them. 

“Someone always will be.” Jon straightened his collar and helped her pull the neckline of her dress back into place before peeking out. 

“Coast is clear,” he murmured, and then whipped her out into the corridor, leaving her breathless and laughing. 

“Not so fast next time,” she giggled, and the smile in his eyes was worth every nervous moment.


	9. Chapter 9

Lord Eddard Stark was seated at his desk with his face in his hands when Sansa entered his solar, and she thought she had never seen him look so weary. 

“Father?” she called out softly, and his eyes met hers tiredly. 

“Sansa! I’m glad you could make it.” He pulled her into a tight hug and they sat together at a small table, their meal already laid out on a tray.

“I wouldn’t miss lunch with you for the world, Father. Where’s Arya? I thought she might be here.” Sansa placed several sandwiches and some candied plums on her plate, watching her father do the same.

“Arya is… willful lately. To be honest, I’ve only seen her a few times since we arrived. We’re lucky she’s still in the city.” 

Sansa frowned at that. “Well, we can’t force her to be here. I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, wherever she is.”

“That she must be,” he agreed, and they ate in companionable silence for a few moments.

“Sansa…” she looked up, her mouth full, to see her father staring at her contemplatively. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

“About what?” She dabbed at her mouth delicately before folding her hands in her lap. 

“Your sworn sword, Ser Jon. How has he been treating you?”

Her hands began to shake in her lap. “Ser Jon has given me the utmost respect, Father. He treats me only with kindness, and is loyal to a fault so far.”

“Promise me that you will tell me if you don’t believe he is protecting you fully. We can always find you another sword, King’s Landing has no end of them, it seems.”

“No!” It came out of her mouth a little more forcefully than she meant, and he looked at her in alarm. “I only mean… I’m still settling in, Father, and Ser Jon is one of the only people I can trust so far. I would appreciate his presence.” 

His lips pursed together at that, but he seemed to accept her answer. “He’s very… Dornish, isn’t he?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.” Sansa gulped down some wine, trying to hide the shaking that wouldn’t seem to stop.

“He’s quick-tempered, and a bit sly. He doesn’t seem to hold to honor the way Northern men do.”

“He’s been very honorable so far. I have absolutely no doubt in his ability to protect me from harm.” Sansa finally met her father’s eyes, and there was something strange in the way he clenched his jaw, the furtive look he was trying to hide. “Is there something I need to know about Ser Jon?”

He heaved a great sigh, and his fingers came up to toy with his pin, the sigil of the Hand of the King. “No, of course not. He will do an excellent job of keeping you safe, and as long as you have faith in him, I trust your judgment. Your mother didn’t keep you in the north for all those years for naught, it seems.”

“I learned a great deal from you and Mother, and I’m very grateful you didn’t force me to marry earlier. Prince Joffrey will make a good husband and a better King.” Even with the short amount of time they’d been officially married, Sansa knew that his skills as a king would far outweigh his skills in their relationship. 

“I only worry about you, Sansa. You’re a princess now, and you must be protected accordingly. Ser Jon should be replaced with a member of the Kingsguard, in truth.”

“Princess Myrcella is protected by the Hound, and he’s not in the Kingsguard,” Sansa pointed out. 

“Only because half the Kingsguard are fools,” he muttered, and Sansa resisted the urge to snort out loud. 

“Once I am queen, the Kingsguard will protect me, Father. They say King Robert is as healthy as an ox. We can worry about this when the time comes.” She reached out to hold his hand over the table, and it seemed to bring him some peace. 

As Sansa left the room, however, she could feel his eyes piercing into her back, and it made her more nervous than she could have anticipated.

It was only a few days later when Sansa was woken at the break of dawn by one of her maidservants, shaking her on the shoulder briskly. 

“What is it?” she muttered sleepily, too aware of Joffrey’s prone body next to her. 

“The Lady Margaery will be arriving in the city within the morning, and you must be ready to receive her. Queen Cersei insisted.”

“Yes, of course.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sank into the bath that was already prepared, letting the warm water ease the tight ache from her bones. 

By the time she was toweled dry and dressed in a newly fashioned gown of the Southern style, her stomach was rumbling fiercely. Another maid popped in to deposit a breakfast tray in front of her while the first continued on with her hair, tugging and braiding it. 

In between bites, she finally asked her, “What’s your name?” 

“Bethany, my lady.” 

“Bethany. Where did you learn to braid like this?” She gestured to the elegant style currently being wrapped around her head, and Bethany chuckled.

“My mother was maid to the late Lady Rosby, some time ago. She taught me all she knew.”

“Your mother must have been very skilled, then. You’ve been doing beautiful work. I appreciate all your time.” 

“Thank you, Princess. It’s an honor to be able to attend you.” Bethany slid a few extra pins in her hair and laid her hands on Sansa’s shoulders. “There, you’re all finished now.”

“Wonderful. I shan’t be needing you for a while, I assume.” Sansa shot her a quick but warm smile, and Bethany curtsied to her on her way out the door. 

Joffrey snored, still asleep, and Sansa wished she could drag him out with her. His presence would probably sour the morning, so after sending him one last glare, she swept out of the room. 

As expected, Ser Jon was already waiting in the corridor.

“Did you lurk outside my chambers all night, ser?” 

“Where else could a bastard knight be found but waiting on a lovely lady like yourself?” His grin was wolfish, and they journeyed down to the stables together. Sansa had heard that Lady Margaery was an avid rider, and she wished to present herself as an equal rather than arriving in a litter. 

The dawn was breaking spectacularly over the Blackwater Bay, and Sansa reined up near the city gates to watch it from the docks, painting the water with a myriad of reds and purples. When Jon’s sand steed stopped beside her, she found him watching her with the strangest look on his face. 

“What’s on your mind, ser?” Her voice was soft. This early in the morning, there were very few people in the streets, and it was almost as if they were alone. 

“You are.” His chest heaved for a moment. “You look like a goddess, Sansa.”

“I thought you didn’t keep to a religion, ser.” Sansa tried to keep the mood light, but his eyes were heavy on hers, and she was growing warm with the weight of it. 

“Maybe I could.” 

They watched the bay together until the sun had risen fully, the rich colors of its rising devolving into the bright yellow of daylight, and the spell was broken. 

It was only a few minutes later that the gates opened, revealing a rather impressive line. 

“Lord Mace, Lady Margaery, Ser Loras. Welcome to King’s Landing.” Sansa straightened her back as she spoke, trying to look every bit the princess they were expecting. 

“I’m afraid we must have come too early. Where is the rest of our welcoming party?” Lady Margaery teased, but there was a hint of steel in her voice. 

“Is a princess and future queen not enough?” Jon’s voice was less kind, and Sansa instantly shot him a warning glare.

“I apologize for the absence of our king and queen. I know I’m not much of a party, but I’m happy to show you all through the city. The queen has declared that a wing in Maegor’s Holdfast be prepared for you, for however long you wish to stay. Might I lead the way?” Before waiting for an answer, Sansa turned her horse and began to trot back through the city. 

It wasn’t long before Lady Margaery appeared at her side, a conciliatory look on her face. “Princess, please forgive me for missing your wedding. I heard it was quite the affair.” 

“The queen certainly made it quite the lovely event, and the food at our feast was to die for.”

“I can only hope for the same treatment for my wedding.” Margaery’s apparently didn’t feel the heat of the south, for her hair was even longer than Sansa’s and was undone, chocolate-brown curls almost brushing the back of her horse.

“I didn’t realize your betrothal was official, Lady Margaery. What happy news!” Sansa smiled widely at her, willing to play the fool.

“Oh, it’s not official yet, but you know it’s only a matter of time.” Her laughter pealed out around them and Sansa joined in. Margaery seemed slippery, and Sansa knew it was smarter to play dumb than to try to outwit an enemy you didn’t know. 

As they made their way through Maegor’s, it seemed every lowly servant stopped to gawk at them. Sansa hadn’t experienced this level of scrutiny even when she and the Princess Myrcella were together. 

“The people seem to love you already, my lady.” 

“Oh, you know it’s all because of you. You’re much too beautiful for them to be looking at me.” 

“Lady Margaery, you are too kind. I’m so pleased that we are friends.” Sansa clasped Margaery’s hands, smiling a little too openly to be honest. 

“Thank you for your warm welcome, Princess. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.” Margaery took off down the wing they were assigned, a sway to her step, and Sansa smiled at Lord Mace and Ser Loras in passing before slumping her shoulders as they turned away. 

As she came around the past corner and met up with Jon, she wanted to laugh. “Margaery is going to be an absolute handful.” 

Jon laughed. “Well, Ser Loras at the least won’t be difficult. We had a lengthy conversation about swordsmanship, so I’m sure we’ll meet again in the practice yard.” 

“Do you think he may be your better? Maybe I should enlist him as my protector instead.” Sansa said it lightly, but it ignited a fire in Jon’s eyes that surprised her. 

“You think you can get rid of me that easily?” His tone was light as well, but there was something heavy in the way his stride rolled forward, and he was walking her slowly backwards now.

“I must have the best protection in the Seven Kingdoms, aside from the Kingsguard. If you can’t provide that for me…” she let her sentence trail off, and the side of his mouth quirked.

“You’re questioning my skills, now? What a dangerous idea.” Her back was against the cold stones, and he had framed her in with an arm on each side of her head.

“I don’t find you dangerous at all,” Sansa said boldly, and Jon shook his head at her with a strange, crooked laugh. 

One finger traced her forehead, smoothed over her chin, and finally tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and she became suddenly aware of how warm he was, how close, and the well-traveled corridor they were standing in. 

“Jon, someone could see,” she murmured quietly, unwilling to break the spell herself.

“No one will see.” His hand drew down her side now, almost brushing her breast, and Sansa was almost ashamed of how much she wished that it did. 

“Jon, _please,_ she moaned, and in that moment she didn’t know if she was asking him to stop or keep going. His hand pressed to her hip, firm and warm, and she wanted to drown in his warmth, his scent. 

“You’re too damn pretty for your own good, you know,” he finally growled as he pulled away, and Sansa missed the closeness immediately. 

“So are you,” she shot back, trying to call back her wandering heart and failing miserably. 

“What a pair we are.” They strolled through the hallways, a polite distance apart, her hand resting formally on his elbow. 

“What a pair, indeed,” she mused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the pieces are in place now! Let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been updating pretty frequently, but my chapters have been fairly short. I might start updating less, but with longer chapters - I haven't decided yet. I tend to switch scenes a lot, so we'll see.
> 
> Sorry if the beginning seems rushed. There is almost zero Jonsa this chapter (oops) but it's coming soon!

During their morning ride, Myrcella was practically bouncing in her saddle. “Have you heard the wonderful news? There is to be a hunt!”

“A hunt?”

“Yes, the men are going out to hunt boar in the kingswood. They haven’t been in ages, and Father was getting so restless.” Myrcella rolled her eyes. “Anyways, all of the men will be out, so we must have a get-together.”

“All of the men? The Hound, even?” Sansa chose her words with care.

“Yes, and Ser Jon, too. It’s going to be quite the event. They’re leaving on the morrow.” 

“How exciting.” Sansa tried to infuse her voice with the jovial tone Myrcella used, but couldn’t quite manage it. Hunts were long, and dangerous, and stupid. She was worried already.

The men went on their hunt the next morning, and Sansa spent the day holed up with Princess Myrcella and Lady Margaery, giggling over their embroidery. She hadn’t felt such kinship since she was home at Winterfell, and it gave her happiness in a way she never anticipated.

All of her happiness went down the drain that night, when Ser Jon and the Hound dragged the king up to his chambers on a giant cot, sliced open from groin to neck. Too much wine and a sense of false bravado had caused him to face down a boar alone and come out all the worse. 

He was alive, but only barely.

The next morning, Sansa laid in their bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried desperately not to cry.

It had been nearly a moon that she had been wed, and she could count the nights she went unassaulted on one hand. _I must give him heirs,_ she reminded herself weakly, but even the prospect of a sweet babe at her breast did naught to relax her.

She would be queen soon, she knew. King Robert was once a robust man, but he wasn’t so anymore, and Sansa had seen the gash along his torso firsthand. She anticipated a coronation within a fortnight. And as queen, she had one duty that came before all else.

In the few weeks since Lady Margaery had arrived, they had become closer than Sansa ever could have anticipated. She was slippery, no doubt, but her political mind was much shrewder than Sansa could have anticipated, and she was beginning to enjoy the gentle banter between Margaery, Myrcella, and herself during their afternoon teas. 

There was only one woman in all of King’s Landing that could give her what she needed now

Thaty afternoon, Jon escorted her to the gardens, a gentle hand on the small of her back. They had done naught but exchange heated kisses in deserted hallways, in alcoves, once in the godswood at the break of dawn, and the tension crackled between them every time their skin touched, even in the most innocent of ways.

Sansa arrived at a pavilion where she had arranged for their tea to be served and sent him away with a gentle tilt of her head.

When Margaery finally arrived, escorted by her brother, she waved him away with a flap of her hand. “Go find Ser Jon, Loras. I’m sure he’d love to spar with you.” 

With their tea in hand, Margaery scooted her chair closer to Sansa. “What is the meaning of this secret meeting, darling girl? Not that I’m complaining, of course. I love a little conspiracy with my tea.” She whispered the end with a quirk to her lips, but Sansa could see how serious she was.

“How is the wedding planning going?” Sansa stalled. 

“Oh, like any other wedding. Renly and I will be wed in a moon’s turn, here in the capital, and then I shall be shipped off to Storm’s End like a common bovine,” she sighed. “Cersei is much too smart to allow me to stay here long, of course.” 

“I will miss you dearly,” Sansa confided. Margaery was cunning and sly, but she was intelligent, and had been kind to Sansa after their disastrous first meeting. _I hadn’t realized what a charm you are,_ she had exclaimed after Sansa beat her at cyvasse four times in a row, and they had been fast friends since.

“Enough chatter, Sansa. What do you need?” Margaery’s eyes bored into hers, their hands clasped together on the table. 

Sansa crossed and uncrossed her legs, and finally leaned forward to whisper in Margaery’s ear carefully, barely breathing it in her fear. “Moon tea.” 

Margaery pulled back quickly, searching her face. “What a dangerous thing for a queen to want.”

“You’ve met my king. Being in charge is what he’s best at.” Sansa tried to keep her voice playful, hoping that Margaery would read what she wasn’t saying.

“Of course,” she murmured, twisting her fingers together, and then responded more loudly, “Well, that particular color of thread is no issue. I could have it for you at our next embroidery session with Myrcella.” 

“Lady Margaery, your kindness is unfailing. I’ll never know how you have so many connections.” Sansa played along carefully, squeezing Margaery’s hand in silent thanks. 

“Oh, darling, you should visit Highgarden one day. The dyers and seamstresses are simply phenomenal. I could send your measurements over to my favorite, if you’d like.” 

“How sweet of you. I’d love that.” They lapsed into silence, sipping their tea, but Margaery was looking at her carefully, much differently than she had the day before. 

“Why don’t we go for a short walk, Sansa? My legs could use a stretch,” Margaery suggested, and with her nod, Margaery laced her arm through Sansa’s and they set off through the roses. 

They made idle chatter until they reached the entrance of the godswood. 

“Would you like to go in and pray? I wouldn’t mind going with you.” There was a hard look in Margaery’s eyes that made Sansa nod, and they strode quickly through the wood until they reached the gigantic weirwood in the center.

Sansa settled gracefully on the ground, facing the giant tree, and Margaery settled with her, a little closer than normally.

“Listen to me carefully.” Her face was tilted down towards the ground, and she spoke quietly and quickly. “Renly has reason to believe that Joffrey is not Robert’s son. I know, it sounds absurd,” she held a finger up when Sansa’s head turned in disbelief, “But let me finish. Once we are wed, Renly is going to spread the news and declare himself king. We can provide you amnesty in Storm’s End, if you can get out of the city at the right time.”

“Marg. How on _earth_ is this going to work? This is ridiculous.” 

“ _Listen to me_. Joffrey is a bastard. He is not the rightful king. We found out too late to stop your wedding, but I don’t want you to die in this war.” Margaery was gripping both of her hands now, anchoring her. “It will be war, soon. Promise me you’ll try to get out. Jon will help you, if you tell him.” 

“You absolutely cannot be serious.” 

“Wait until after my wedding, then. Stannis already knows, that’s why he’s left King’s Landing, and I’m sure your father will know soon, he’s been poking around entirely too much. I’m so sorry you’re caught in the middle of this, sweet girl, but I’m glad that I can trust you in this.” 

Sansa pulled her hands away slowly, still in shock. “No matter what I do, it will be war?”

“It will be war,” Margaery confirmed. 

“How much time do I have?”

“After Renly and I are wed, we’ll travel back to Storm’s End together and pretend nothing is amiss. He’ll declare himself king within a moon’s turn.”

“Walk back to the castle with me.” 

When they reached the training yard, Jon and Loras were engaged in a lethal fight, or so it seemed to Sansa.

Jon was shirtless, and for the first time, her eyes confirmed what her hands already knew. His muscles were sleek, but well-defined. He didn’t look to be cut of stone, like the Mountain, but he was quick and lithe like a cat. Loras was a good match for him, his build quite similar. 

Sansa realized she was staring, mouth agape, and she composed herself quickly. “What a marvelous swordsman Loras is! You’re so lucky that he came to the capital with you,” Sansa gushed, watching him parry Jon’s blade thrice in quick succession. 

“To be fair, it’s Jon who must be excellent. I’ve never seen Loras strain so much.” Margaery was almost laughing. “To be sworn sword to a princess, you must be talented, I suppose.”

“Loras is talented enough for all that,” Sansa said carefully, watching how Margaery reacted from the corner of her eye.

“Oh, yes. Maybe he’ll protect a queen one day.” 

“I’ll await your raven,” Sansa teased, and they shared a bright smile together. 

Sansa wasn’t even sure if she wanted to be queen anymore. It was once all she had dreamed of, but now… it would be a much easier time being queen if she didn’t have an absolute buffoon of a king beside her. 

She wasn’t quite as savvy at navigating the South as Margaery was, but she didn’t have enough practice. Once she became queen, she would be well-versed in the lords and ladies, which were loyal and which were snakes. 

She might never truly be queen. A small part of her rejoiced at that. 

_I won’t have to be queen. I won’t have to carry Joffrey’s children or share his bed. I could raise my children at home, in the North, married to a good lord…_

Her fantasies were only that, fantasies. She would never have the idyllic life she dreamed of, even if Margaery were queen. She would still be the queen of a line overthrown. The best she could hope for would be a quiet widowship in the North.

 _A quiet widowship would be easier than being his wife._

Sansa’s mind was made up. 

She squeezed Margaery’s hand softly, and the girl turned to face her. Sansa nodded, almost imperceptibly, and squeezed her hand again.

Margaery’s lips slid into an easy, lopsided grin, and she squeezed back.


	11. Chapter 11

King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, died on a quiet afternoon with his best friend at his side.

The bells rung in the capital for the rest of the evening and most of the night, commemorating his life and his death. 

Somehow, Sansa couldn’t bring herself to feel sad. She didn’t feel happy, either, or angry. She didn’t feel anything about King Robert at all.

Neither did his queen, or so it seemed. 

Upon his death, Cersei immediately escorted Joffrey to the top of the Iron Throne and held court, with not a minute wasted. Sansa only found out because they sent a messenger to her as she sat with Margaery and Myrcella in their mourning clothes, calling them all to the throne room. 

They entered the room in three rows, each escorted by their sworn swords, and it seemed all the room held its breath. 

Sansa curtsied low before her lord husband, and Jon bowed next to her. _Gods, give me strength,_ she prayed, before she rose to her feet. 

“My queen,” he called to her, and gestured impatiently to bring her to his side. “I’m pleased you came so quickly. Myrcella, Lady Margaery, do come forth. The crown insists.” 

Margaery had composed herself easily, leaning into Loras as she took a place in the front of the crowd of lords and ladies, and Myrcella came up beside her, almost shaking as she stood next to the Hound. 

Sansa immediately felt ashamed as she looked at Myrcella, who looked more out of place than she ever had before. _She must come with me when I leave the capital,_ she mused, and then realized, too late, that her father wasn’t in attendance. 

Cersei’s hair was beautifully arranged, almost as if she knew she would be holding court today, and her mourning clothes were adorned with black jewels in a way that only she would find appropriate. 

“We are desperately grieving over the death of my lord husband and our king, Robert.” Cersei allowed the crowd a moment to nod, bow their heads, make the proper quiet sounds, before she continued. “In these times of sorrow, we must always look forward, and although Joffrey is terribly troubled, he has agreed to immediately accept his birthright.”

Sansa didn’t turn, as much as she wanted to. She could see Joffrey’s smirk anyway, through the corner of her eye, and it bothered her more than she dare admit. 

“We have spoken with the High Septon, and Lady Sansa and I will be crowned tomorrow morning, in the light of the Seven in the Holy Sept of Baelor.” Joffrey sounded triumphant, happy even, and something wrenched in Sansa’s gut as the high lords clapped. 

The doors to the throne room were thrown open, and Father strode through them, his head held high and a hard look in his eyes. He had a small swarm of men behind him, and Sansa noted the strange set to their jaws, the almost furtive looks they kept exchanging. 

“My queen,” he bowed to Cersei, “I come with a letter from Robert. His last will and words.”

 

Ser Barristan Selmy stirred from his position beside the throne, where he had been nearly hidden in its shadow. Her father handed him a sealed scroll quietly, impassively.

“The royal sigil, still unbroken,” Ser Barristan vouched, and handed the scroll to Cersei, a scowl pressed to her pretty face.

She ripped it open carelessly, and skimmed the contents before sighing, and ripped it to shreds. 

Sansa couldn’t help but gasp, and Father even looked incredulous.

“Those were the king’s words,” Ser Barristan said, shocked, and Cersei rolled her eyes. 

“We have a new king now.”

Sansa wanted to scream. Sansa wanted to cry. Margaery stood hard and strong in the front row, and as their eyes met, she gave the most imperceptible of nods, and Sansa steeled her spine. 

“Again, our new king and queen will be crowned on the morrow at the Sept of Baelor. We wish you all good fortune.” The whirl of her skirts scattered the torn pieces of the last will and words of King Robert Baratheon, and Cersei left the room without a care. 

“Joffrey, my love,” she sang, “do you mind if Myrcella, Margaery, and I return to our afternoon tea?” 

“Take care that you aren’t late to supper,” he replied, almost absent, his eyes fixed on the very top of the Iron Throne. 

“Of course, your grace.” She curtsied, mindful of her manners, and rejoined her friends and Jon at the front of the room. 

The six of them made their way down the halls for a moment, until Sansa stopped suddenly, causing them all to turn.

“Margaery, Myrcella, do you mind if I retire to my chambers for the rest of the afternoon? I’m feeling rather exhausted.” Sansa took care to murmur her words, allowing her eyelids to droop, and the two of them hugged her quietly, nodding, before she turned a corner, her arm still laced in Jon’s. 

“Are you quite alright, your grace?” She was walking more urgently, tugging on his arm slightly, before they exited the castle through a side door and made their way towards the godswood.

“Sansa, you’re worrying me.” His voice was low, but she just walked all the quicker, pulling him through the sparsely threaded trees until they faced the gods. 

She turned to him so quickly that he nearly stumbled, steadying himself on her upper arms, and she wasted no time in pulling him down to her. 

Their lips tangled together desperately, and he made a strangled sound deep in his throat as she stroked his chest, fit her hips against his and circled slowly, needily, reveling in the way he gasped between kisses.

When she finally pulled away, he was panting, pupils blown into saucers. “Do you trust me, Jon?” 

“Of course I do.” There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, but Sansa chalked it up to nerves.

“You’re sworn to protect me. How far does your oath go?” She was whispering nervously, but her eyes never left his.

“I would protect you to the ends of the earth, and further. Anywhere you go, I go too.”

“Pray with me.” She dropped to her knees and he followed suit, facing the great tree.

Her voice barely above the whisper of wind, she murmured to him, “Margaery is planning a coup. Joffrey is not the rightful king. I need you to help me.”

Jon’s eyes looked panicked, but his look was calm, almost calculating. “What do you need?”

“I need you to help me get out of the capital.”

“I can do that in a heartbeat. When are we leaving?” 

“Not just us.” His head flicked to face her now, incredulousness flooding his features, and Sansa thought she heard his teeth grind. “I need you to get out Father, Myrcella, and the Hound, as well.” 

“You want me to help you sneak out the former Hand and two princesses? Are you out of your _mind_?” 

“I know it sounds complicated, but Jon, Margaery says that Renly is going to declare himself king and march on King’s Landing. I need my family to be safe.” 

“I need more details than this,” he hissed, his curls flicking around his face as he shook his head. 

“I know you do,” she seethed back, fingernails pressing into her palms. “You’ll get your damn details, just promise me you’ll help me.”

“I will. Gods help us, I will.” 

“We have to act as if nothing is amiss, for now. After Margaery is wed, I’ll make some excuse to visit her at Storm’s End. You have to help me get Father and Myrcella out of the capital as well, hopefully there. Margaery will grant us amnesty, she promised.” 

“And you trust her with this? With your life, and your families lives?” He had scooted forward, the leaves crunching between them, and his hands clasped hers tightly, tenderly. 

“I would rather that than stay here, with him.” Her voice twisted toward the end and Jon pulled her forward until she collapsed against his chest, feeling his heart beat. 

“You’ll stay with me there?” she almost begged, feeling hopeless, and he tilted her chin up tenderly until their lips met in a soft caress.

“I’d stay with you anywhere.” 

When they placed a delicate diadem on her hair, a new crown fashioned with leaping stags and delicate golden whorls, Sansa had never felt more ugly. 

King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, helped her to her feet, a matching crown atop his golden waves, and she fought back the urge to throw up on his shoes.

Instead, she beamed at him brightly, swallowing the bile, and turned to face the cheering crowd. It was a new age, with a new king to lead them through winter.

She allowed Joffrey to kiss her hand in the sept, and then to kiss her fully once they were outside in front of the crowds, and they roared in response, seeing their king and queen so totally in love that they would embrace in front of the smallfolk. 

Jon stood at her side through it all, and their conversation from weeks before rang through his head. 

_I’m sworn to protect you_ , he had said, and he remembered the wistful look on her face all too well. _Not from him._

***

If nothing else, queenhood suited Sansa well. 

She treated the commoners with kindness, arranged for food to be sent up to the capital from Highgarden, thanks to Margaery’s help, and spent most of her days hearing petitioners from the foot of the Iron Throne.

Joffrey usually skirted the grievances of the smallfolk, much like his father had, and so Sansa sat on the steps day after day, Jon on one side and Ser Barristan on the other, doing justice as well as she could.

When Joffrey did see to climbing the great throne, he would call for fingers and tongues to be cut out, heads to roll across the floor, and Sansa had to bite her tongue and interlace her fingers. 

She might not have been the best, but she was better than Joffrey, and the smallfolk quaked when they faced Joffrey instead of the gentle queen. 

Margaery threw together a wedding in record time, and she and Renly were wed in the midst of the rose gardens, with the royal families looking on. The reception was a different story, a party in every respect, and it seemed all of King’s Landing showed up to pay their respects to the new Lady of Storm’s End.

Margaery handled them gracefully, charmingly, and Sansa couldn’t help but think of how she would be as queen. 

Joffrey left after the third course was served, citing boredom, but Sansa stayed until the late hours of night with Princess Myrcella, drinking too much wine and hugging each other as the night grew cold and dark. 

Margaery departed for Storm’s End within a sennight, with Renly, a trail of cousins, and a small fortune in foodstuffs from the Reach. 

On her last night in the capital, she and Sansa embraced in the gardens, where it had all begun. 

Margaery laughed gaily, loudly, and often when there were other visitors near them, and plotted in whispers when they were alone. 

“I’ll expect you within a moon’s turn,” she whispered into Sansa’s hair at the end. “Keep Jon close to you.”

“A moon’s turn,” Sansa whispered back, and when Margaery left, she felt cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this all feels very snapshot-y, but there's lots of events to get through that I don't think need a lot of detail, and I'm trying not to be too repetitive. 
> 
> This story keeps getting away from me. Next chapter, she gets out!
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, but we're moving right along now! Thanks for reading!

Ned was no longer Hand of the King, but no one had forcibly vacated him from the Tower of the Hand yet, so there he stayed.

His desk was covered in more scrolls than ever before, and a series of books, each heavier than the last, yet he had no words to send out himself. 

Two days prior he had visited the Street of Steel and found a bastard under Cersei’s nose, and his ravens to Stannis flew with heavy wings. 

He mourned what he had married his daughter to. 

Sansa would be arriving in his solar in a few minutes, yet Ned hadn’t made up his mind whether or not to tell her about her husband, or even her cousin.

Robert was gone, but the hatred of a Targaryen didn’t die with him. Ned feared for his nephew’s life if Cersei found out his parentage, and the castle was full of spies more now than ever. 

He was by Sansa’s side day and night, their arms always laced together, and Ned thought that he could trust her to keep this secret, and yet, and yet…

Maybe it wasn’t quite time for that secret, yet. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.

Sansa bounced on the pads of her feet, a sealed scroll with the direwolf of House Stark concealed in her hand. Oak had never been so intimidating before.

Finally, she raised the courage to knock lightly, and the door swung open within a second. 

“Father.” She gave him a small smile, and he ushered her inside. 

“I’m so glad to see you. Might I give you this first?” She offered him the scroll, the outsides slightly damp from her sweaty palm, and confusion crossed his face.

“Where did you get this? Is it from your mother?” The Stark seal, unbroken, snarled underneath his fingers. Sansa shook her head. 

“It’s simply a few of my thoughts that I wrote down, for some clarity. Would you read them, before we speak more?” She sat daintily, pulling her hair over her shoulders, and waited. 

When he was finally finished, his posture was etched in stone. “So you know, as well.” 

“I do.” She pulled the paper back from his fingers and deposited it in the hearth, watched as it crumbled to ashes. 

“Your plan is… surprisingly sound.” His approval warmed her, and she grinned, her back still to him. 

“I had help.” She turned and faced him again, where he was seated at his desk. “Lady Margaery’s wedding was so beautiful. I wish you were there with us.” 

“I doubt I missed much. Weddings are simple.” 

“It was surpassingly lovely. I was so sad to see her go, but Margaery said she was ready to take up her duties as Lady of a great house. She said she should be settled in within a moon’s turn, no matter how ridiculously quick that seems.” She laughed lightly, but her hands were covering his, and her eyes were as cool and hard as sapphires.

“She does seem rather ambitious.” Ned was no good at plotting, but he wasn’t slow to read his daughter’s face.

“I heard that the last of her belongings would be leaving for Storm’s End in three days time. I promised her I would make sure her dresses were packed properly. She’s quite fearsome when they’re wrinkled.” 

“Don’t let me keep you from your duties, your grace,” Ned said formally, but he crossed his other hand on top of hers, and she gave a small nod. 

“I really loved seeing you, Father. Let me know if your men find Arya, I’ve sent several parties out and none have come back with anything worthwhile.” 

Her forehead did crease then, crumpling her face, and she looked again like the girl she had once been at Winterfell, instead of the leader and queen she had become. 

Sansa kissed him softly on the cheek and showed herself out, where Jon was waiting in the hall. 

“I told you not to wait this time.”

“I simply couldn’t help myself. What glories does the practice yard hold, when I could be standing next to you instead?” 

“The glory of not dying in the next war to come, of course.” Sansa rolled her eyes at him as they paced the halls.

“Did your meeting with Lord Stark go well, your grace?” Several servants passed by, and Sansa said lightly, “My father is always happy to see me, and we had a pleasant conversation. He agreed to check the docks for any signs of Arya in the next three days or so.”

They turned once, and again, and again, until they were in a deserted wing of the castle, with only the sound of their shadows chasing them. 

Sansa eased a door open, and although it should have been shut up for months, maybe years, there was still a semblance of life there. A dusty desk was shoved in a corner, but the bed was basically freshly made with silks and furs.

“I thought we deserved a little break before everything goes to shit.” 

“My queen!” Jon whispered scandalously, his hand covering his face, and she laughed before kicking her shoes off and climbing onto the bed.

Her head was tilted back, her neck long, and Jon wasted no time before he was sprawled out next to her, propped up on an elbow while his other hand traced her from neck to hip, up and down. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and her eyes flicked up to meet his before their hands tangled together, slow and lazy, and she rolled onto her side to press her body against his, nestled under his chin.

“Promise me this will all turn out, Jon,” she whispered, and he bent lower to nuzzle his cheek against hers.

“I can’t promise that, love.” He felt her chin tremble and pulled her closer, letting her drape a knee over his hip. 

Sansa took a deep breath and let it out in a puff against his chest. “Three days.”

Their lips met in a crash, his hands soft on her hips, and when they traced down lower he found her skirt rucked up and the smooth, soft skin of her thighs was warm under his hands.

She moaned headily, pulling on his curls until his scalp ached, yet he only wanted more. 

When he rolled her underneath him she gasped, but wrapped her legs around his waist all the same. There were too many layers between them but he stroked the exposed skin from her knee to the crease of her hip, wanting more, always more.

She covered his neck in kisses and arched her back needily, yet they moved no further than the gentle caresses and hungry kisses they had always shared in the past. 

When they finally broke apart, there were tears in her eyes. 

“Do you think Renly will succeed in deposing Joffrey?” 

Jon wiped the wetness from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. “I hope that he will. With the queen and a princess as leverage, Joffrey should be hard-pressed to turn to war.”

“If we make it there.” Her chin was wobbling again, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“We’ll make it there. I promise, we will make it.” 

They stayed like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, for too many minutes.

“Supper will be soon. I musn’t miss it, Joffrey will be so wroth with me.” Sansa wiped the last of her tears away herself, reaching for her shoes.

“Let me.” Jon slid the slippers onto her feet, tying the laces with care, and when he was finished she was crying again, and it took a long moment before she could stop hiccuping enough to step back out of the room. 

When they were back to a civilised part of the castle, Jon pulled her aside. 

“If Joffrey hurts you…”

“More than he already has, you mean?” Her face was closed, bitter, and his next sentence soured in his mouth. “Thank you for escorting me to supper, Ser Jon. Your service is appreciated.” 

A lordling or two was staring at their close proximity, and so he bowed with a lame “Your Grace,” and watched her sweep into a council room, his heart in his throat once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought they'd make it out this chapter, but alas, here we are. Next chapter should culminate the setup and get them on their merry way.
> 
> Much plotting in this, which made it way too fun to write the dialogue. Hope you enjoyed!


	13. Chapter 13

“I was thinking that we really should plan a royal tour of the country, Your Grace.”

Sansa was trying hard to sound unaffected as she pierced her needle through a handkerchief, a golden stag taking form under her fingers.

“Whatever for?” Joffrey was fussing with a crossbow of his, one of his favorite weapons.

“Now that you’re king, you should show yourself to the people. Let them see who rules them.”

“I don’t need to wallow with the peasants.” His tone was disdainful, and she disliked how he caressed the wood of the bow.

“I could go in your stead, Your Grace. You have been doing such a fine job of ruling without me. I could take Myrcella too, it would be a good chance to show her off to the high lords. You might even get a betrothal out of it,” Sansa said casually, and Joffrey squinted at her.

“Since when are you so concerned about making sure Myrcella is wed?” 

“It casts a poor light on such a powerful house, that such a beauty has no husband.” She kept her eyes down, focused on her work, and kept her breathing steady. 

“It would be good to get her out of the capital,” Joffrey muttered, pulling the bow to his shoulder. “Mother won’t like it much.” 

“She doesn’t have to.” Sansa tossed the embroidery aside and came up behind him, over his shoulder. “She isn’t queen anymore.” 

He looked over his shoulder at her, his mouth agape, and she spared him the briefest of smiles. 

“You could get the people on your side, Myrcella wed, and maybe even a betrothal for Tommen, without ever leaving the capital.” She ran her fingers down her arm, knowing the effect she could have on him, before meeting his eyes.

“Mother says that we must have an heir.” Joffrey tore away from her and she hid a heavy sigh.

“We will have an heir. My mother bore five children, and all healthy. Your mother bore three with no issue.” She forced herself to smile gently, and Joffrey whirled back around, a curious look in his eyes. 

“If your mother bore children so easily, then why aren’t we expecting a child yet?” There was something simmering deep in his eyes.

“Sometimes it takes a little bit of time, my love. I have no worries. I know we will give the realm many princes and princesses.” 

The bile was rising in her throat, but Joffrey wasn’t looking at her anymore. “How long?”

“Your Grace?” 

He took a step away from her, staring into the crackling fireplace. “How long would you be gone?”

“We could start small, your grace, only a few months away. Myrcella and I could tour Storm’s End first, pay a visit to your uncle Renly, and then make our way through Dorne to Highgarden. The Dornish have been prickly toward us as of late, and I thought we could offer Myrcella to Quentyn or Trystane.”

“Myrcella’s a bit young for Quentyn, isn’t she?” Joffrey’s lip curled at that.

“Seven years is nothing, Your Grace. Myrcella is certainly old enough to be wed, and they need not produce heirs for some time since Arianne will rule.” 

He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “A few months, you say?” 

“We shan’t be gone long.” Sansa came up behind him again and stroked her fingers down his neck, wishing she could strangle him instead. “And the moment we return, we’ll get back to work on that prince.”

“Fine. Just so long as you take that bastard with you, he’s been at court much too long. You can leave him in Dorne for all I care.” He wrenched out from under her and left, leaving Sansa to sink back into her chair in utter relief.

When she visited the godswood, she was surprised to find her father already there, staring up at the branches. Not wishing to disturb his peace, she sank onto her knees next to him silently.

When he finally turned to face her, she said conversationally, “The king has agreed to let Myrcella and I take a tour of the South. I’m very excited to finally visit Dorne.” 

“It sounds like an experience.” 

“I was hoping you might like to accompany me. Have you ever been to Dorne, or Highgarden? I hear they’re lovely.” 

There was a strange, sad look on her father’s face, and he shook his head. “If His Grace allows, I would like leave to return to Winterfell. I miss your mother, and Robb.” 

Sansa felt stupid for not thinking of it earlier. “Of course, Father. I miss them all terribly, I hope they understand. I don’t know why Joffrey wouldn’t let you go.” 

“Kings do strange things with the power they’re given.” He was staring at the tree again, a little unfocused, and Sansa laid her hand on his arm. “Is everything quite alright?”

“Has Ser Jon been treating you well?” 

“You seem to always be asking me about him. We get along fine, Father. He does a wonderful job of protecting me.” Sansa couldn’t help but crinkle up her face, feeling the tight muscles in his arm. 

Her father let out a long, slow breath, and then held her hand. “I have been to Dorne before, Sansa.”

“You have? During the rebellion?” 

“After the rebellion.” 

Sansa didn’t know what to make of that, so she simply waited for her father to continue.

“Do you remember the story we told you about your aunt Lyanna?”

“Of course,” Sansa replied, confused. “Rhaegar kidnapped her and she was never seen again. It’s part of what started the war.” 

“She was seen again.” Ned took a deep breath. “I found her in Dorne. The Tower of Joy, Rhaegar called it, but there was almost nothing joyful there. I found her, in her bed of blood…” His voice hitched, and Sansa squeezed his hand. 

“Lyanna died in childbirth, Sansa.” His eyes were downcast, but she could see how shiny they were with unshed tears.

“Father, I’m so sorry.” She tried to pull him in for a hug, but he resisted. 

“There’s more.” When she settled back, he continued, low and almost monotonous. “I took her son to Dorne, and I left him with Allyria Dayne, at Starfall, twenty years ago.”

The pieces were starting to click together, but Sansa shook her head in doubt. “There’s another Targaryen?” 

“No one knows about this, Sansa, so you must promise me you’ll keep it a secret.” 

“I promise, Father. But what does this mean?” She was still too confused, or maybe her mind just didn’t want to make the connections, but she felt like she was fighting to see through a haze.

“Your sworn sword, Ser Jon. He is your cousin, and the Targaryen heir to the throne.” 

“But Jon is a bastard.” It was swimming through her mind, slow and foggy.

“You know about Cersei, about her children. Who do you think the people would rally behind?” 

“Jon.” she whispered, incredulously. “But they can’t, Father, this would be war.” 

“War is coming already.” His stare was hard, and she flushed, thinking about Margaery, about Renly.

“Jon won’t want to be king.” 

“Sometimes the role is best suited for someone who doesn’t want it.” 

Sansa ripped her hand from his. “Myrcella and I will leave on our tour in two days time. Take care to arrange passage north by then.” She felt strange and cold, numb almost, as she stalked out of the godswood. 

Of course, as she stormed back to the castle, she ran into the one person she didn’t want to see right now. 

“Your Grace.” Jon bowed, and then practically had to run to catch up with her long strides. “Are you quite alright?” 

“No.” 

She was moving even faster, and Jon had to catch her by the arm before she stopped, hair spiraling out around her. “What on earth has gotten into you?” he hissed, before yanking her sideways and into the stables, which were thankfully empty.

“Everything was so carefully planned, it was all going to be fine, and now…” Sansa felt desperate, unhinged.

“And now what?” He looked confused, practically puppy-dog-eyed in his earnestness. 

“I know who your father is.” She kept her voice low, but she was still bouncing in the balls of her feet, unable to keep still.

Jon froze, completely still, his only motion a drawn-out blink, eyelashes cascading against his tanned skin. He could barely manage a whisper. “Who?”

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

Sansa jumped when he let out a full belly laugh, her lips drawing together angrily. 

“Sansa, I thought you were being serious!”

“I _am_ being serious, now do shut up!” He stopped laughing at that, but his chest still quivered, shaking his head vehemently. 

“If he’s my father, who’s my mother, hmm? Elia Martell?” He almost started laughing again, but Sansa shoved him hard against a stall door.

“Your mother was Lyanna Stark, and you are the bastard heir of the Targaryen line. Stop laughing, seriously, I’m not joking!” 

Jon sobered up at her tone, searching her face. “You’re really not kidding?” 

“No, I’m not kidding! Father just told me, he says he’s the one who left you in Dorne.”

“You’re really serious.” His mouth had fallen open, curls swinging around his face as he shook his head, and then he grasped her by the shoulders, too firmly. “Don’t tell a soul, Sansa.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she hissed. There was a quiet rustling behind them, but a quick glance over her shoulder revealed a horse shuffling around, and she returned her attention to Jon’s face, still incredulous.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. The Baratheons are the royal family now, my father’s name means nothing.” 

“It does matter, Jon. We’re leaving in two days to tour the South, and this is something Margaery will want to hear.” She barely breathed the last few words, but Jon’s lips were pinched in a thin line, and he was still holding her shoulders too tightly. 

“We’ll deal with it then. Until then, just forget about who my father was.” He finally let go, the blood flooding back in a painful rush, and he was running out of the stables before she could even reach a hand out to him. 

***

Sansa and Myrcella rode through the city, followed closely by their sworn swords. Since the king was staying in the capital, there was no need to send a huge retinue with them, and so they were flanked by the Hound, Jon, and Ser Barristan as their Kingsguard.

It wasn’t quite dawn yet, and the last of the stars were fading above them as the sun rose over the bay. There was a caravan following them with their belongings and some delicacies from the Reach, to please Lady Margaery, but they were mostly, blissfully, alone. 

Sansa had said her goodbyes to her father already, who was to be catching a ship to White Harbor that afternoon. Myrcella was equal parts excited and dreading their trip. She thought she was going so that she had input on her future husband, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to correct her. She would before they made it to Storm’s End, she decided. 

When the gates opened before them to reveal the kingsroad, Sansa almost felt free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're out! Finally! Well, almost all of them...
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really getting into the meat of it now. Thank you all for reading!

Thankfully, the ride to Storm’s End was quick, and Sansa found herself staring up, up, up at the fortress within a sennight. 

While they were on the road, she felt like a different woman. She and Myrcella joked and jabbed at their men the entire way, managing to wring smiles even out of the Hound, and by the end, Ser Barristan was warming up to their joyful attitudes as well. 

Sansa couldn’t believe how light she felt. Her nights were spent next to Myrcella, who was a much more welcome presence than her brother had been, and she never had to go back to him again. 

When she and Myrcella weren’t together, she rode next to Jon, happy just to be near him. Myrcella often nudged the Hound to ride together a little further ahead. It was the only time Sansa saw him smile a true smile, full and wide.

They were blessed with sunny days and little rain, which was a boon to Jon’s golden skin, but no so much to Sansa’s. She had to revert to wearing dresses that covered her shoulders and chest more thoroughly after she spent an entire day in the sunlight and her pale skin turned a bright pink. It was worth it to see him glow in the sun, no matter how hot she was. 

The gates to the castle opened, and Margaery herself was there to greet them, half her skin on display in a sheer golden gown.

“Welcome to Storm’s End.” Her smile was warm and sweet, but there was something hesitant about her stance. Sansa couldn’t help but run forward to embrace her, flinging her arms around Margaery’s waist. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sansa said teasingly. Margaery’s hands gripped her shoulders as they pulled apart, and her eyes searched Sansa’s nervously.

“I take it your trip went well. It can be terribly rainy here.” Margaery smiled over Sansa’s shoulders at Myrcella, opening her arms to embrace her as well. 

“I’ll have your things sent up to a private wing, but in the meantime, I think you should come with me to my solar, Sansa.” When Jon stepped forward to flank her, Margaery frowned. 

“It’s okay, Marg. He knows.” 

She flicked her hair over her shoulder, sighed, shrugged. “It won’t be pleasant, either way.” 

As they crossed the yard into the castle proper, her people were bowing, or in some cases, staring outright. 

“They haven’t seen a queen in decades.” Margaery smiled beseechingly at them while Sansa tried to wave politely. “For some, it can be quite a shock.”

“I’m sure they’ll enjoy being in the presence of a queen daily.” Sansa reached forward to hold Margaery’s hand, and they shared a secret smile. 

“Here we are. Make yourself comfortable, please.” Her solar was bright and airy, windows thrown open in the sun and plush armchairs scattered about a hearth, which wasn’t burning at the moment. 

Margaery crossed the room again and knelt next to Sansa on a plush cushion. “Before you arrived, we received a raven from the capital.”

“What does it say?” She snatched the scroll from her hands and unfurled it, recognizing the script of Maester Pycelle. “No. No!” 

“What is it?” Jon nearly rose from his seat, but Margaery placed a hand on his knee, letting Sansa rip the scroll into tiny pieces.

One tear trembled on her eyelid before it slid down her cheek, and Sansa jerked her chin up angrily. “They put Father in the dungeons for attempted treason.” 

“But Ned didn’t do anything.” Jon looked confused more than anything. “None of us have done anything yet.”

“Don’t be a fool, you know you don’t have to actually do anything there.” Sansa thrust the pieces into the cold ashes of the hearth, and she was so angry she felt like she could light it herself. “Someone must have heard us. I was so _careful_ , Jon!” 

She felt like stomping her foot, or pulling her hair out, or screaming. 

“Sansa, what did it actually say?” 

“Horseshit, Jon! That Father’s been imprisoned for ‘conspiring against the crown’ and that he will be held in the dungeons until his trial.” She started pacing angrily. “We have to go back.”

“Sansa, you cannot go back now.” Margaery was on her feet now, placing a calming hand on Sansa’s back. “They’ve imprisoned your father. If you go back, they’ll just throw you in there with him.”

“I can’t just leave him there!” 

“You won’t _just_ leave him there. You’ll go back for him, with an army.” 

“An army.” Her hands balled into fists at her side. “Yes. We go back, with an army. Soon.”

“As soon as we can.” Margaery rubbed her back softly. “We’ve run into a few… setbacks.” 

“What do you mean, setbacks?” 

Margaery sighed. “Well, namely, Stannis.” 

Sansa could feel the rage bubbling up again. “What about Stannis?” 

“He’s been gathering an army of his own. Renly just assumed he’d leave it alone, Stannis never wanted to rule, but then he sent out ravens declaring Joffrey a bastard, and he called on Renly to raise the banners in Stannis’s name. It’s just a little bump in the road, darling.” 

“This is not a bump, Marg.” Sansa ground out. “You’re telling me we might have to ward off Stannis, then turn north and fight off the crown to rescue Father? He could be _dead_ by then!” 

“It’s our only choice, Sansa.” 

_No,_ she thought. _We have another choice._

“I want to speak with Stannis.” 

“That may not be the best choice. Stannis is a hard man, Sansa, and he doesn’t always do well with women. Renly says-”

“I don’t care what Renly says.” She wrenched away from Margaery angrily, crossing to one of the open windows. “When he goes to meet with Stannis, I’m going too. I am the queen, Margaery, and you can’t stop me from doing this.”

“Sansa, dear, I thought you didn’t want to be queen.” Sansa’s back was turned, but Jon could see the calculating look on Margaery’s face, the worried twist of her fingers.

“I don’t want to be queen, but I will be queen if it saves my father’s life. You haven’t won the throne yet.” She turned, chin held high, more regal than if she were sitting the throne at that very moment. “Do not fight me on this. You will not win.”

Sansa crossed the room without a second glance, shoes clicking against the stone, and Margaery was speechless. 

Jon finally rose from his chair, quiet as a shadow, and Margaery startled as if she forgot he was there. 

“I wouldn’t challenge her too much, my lady. She is fierce as a wolf when roused.” He cocked a grin at her, trying to defuse the situation, and Margaery smiled back cautiously. 

“I’m beginning to see that, Ser Jon.” She gestured to the door. “You should probably catch up with her, before she challenges the wrong person.” 

“My lady.” He bowed to her and showed himself out, hoping that he could find Sansa quickly in the unfamiliar castle.

After searching the courtyard and the wing they were given to no avail, he had a hunch.

He found Sansa kneeling in front of a grimacing weirwood, and he could feel the eyes of the Old Gods upon him. 

He knelt next to her, staring up at the great tree, allowing her her silent prayer. _Quiet and contemplation,_ she had once said to him, and the way the loam squished under his fingers just felt right.

When Sansa finally turned to face him, she had tears in her eyes. “What do we do?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “If we back Renly, and Stannis wins, we’ll be outcasts. If we back Stannis, and Renly wins, we’ll likely be dead. If we back either and Joffrey wins, we’ll definitely be dead.”

“And if we back you?” She gave him a hard, anxious look, and he laughed. 

“I have no armies, no loyal houses, no friends to call on. Backing me would be a fool’s errand. No, we must pick a side, Sansa.” 

“I just don’t know which is right,” she whispered, the tears finally starting to fall, and he turned around and tugged her so that she was laying across his chest, his back pressed to the trunk of the tree. 

“Stannis is the more legitimate choice,” he murmured, and he felt Sansa nod against his chest. “But as of now, Renly has more support. The Stormlanders fight for him, and the Reach for Lady Margaery.”

“I could garner more support,” she mused quietly. “The North may fight for me, or the Riverlands for my mother. We may even tempt the Vale to stir, if the fighting is terrible enough, but my mother doesn’t count on my aunt Lysa for much anymore.” 

“Wherever you go, the realm will follow,” he said seriously. “Who would be a better king, Stannis or Renly?” 

“Stannis. But Margaery is the better queen than Lady Selyse.” 

They argued back and forth until the sun had settled in the sky, casting deep shadows around them. 

“Like I said before, Dorne could be the key. If we can betroth Myrcella to Trystane, call their banners, and bring them up through the Reach-”

“But if Tywin’s armies break the armies from the Reach before the Dornish get there, they’re just walking straight into a trap.”

“They’ll just have to move quickly, then.” 

“Sansa, you have to write Robb.”

“No. The raven could be intercepted, it’s too dangerous.”

“Sansa!” He shook her shoulder then, serious as stone. “It’s already too dangerous. _They imprisoned your father._ If Robb hasn’t called his banners yet, he needs to soon. Better that he fights with us than against us.” 

She rubbed her eyes tiredly, frustrated. “Fine. I’ll write Robb on the morrow, telling him to support the new king.”

“Which king will it be, Sansa?” His eyes were grey as a stormcloud, and she shifted, heaving a sigh.

“Renly. We back Renly. With the power of the Stormlands, the Reach, the North, the Riverlands, possibly Dorne… we may actually win.” 

“You should send the raven now, then.” He tugged her to her feet, and she stumbled for a moment, legs asleep from sitting too long.

“It can wait til morning, Jon.” She closed the gap between them, kissing him hard and fast, and he groaned under the assault, before pushing her off with a chuckle. 

“If you send the raven by night, less people will see,” he pointed out, and she rolled her eyes. 

“You’re always right, of course.” She pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, intertwining their fingers. “Let’s go, then.” 

She held his hand all the way back to the castle. She would be a widow soon, anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short update tonight! I figured something was better than nothing, so here it is. Happy reading!

The air was crisp as an apple on Sansa’s tongue as she waited atop a low ridge north of Storm’s End, Renly to her right and Jon to her left.

They commanded a vast sea of fields and forests from this vantage point, where they waited for Stannis Baratheon. Renly japed with Loras, letting their laughter ring loud, showing Stannis they had no hint of fear. 

When Stannis finally rode onto the hill, he had only one other rider with him. A tall woman garbed in red robes, with blood-red hair, and, as they drew closer, Sansa could see that her eyes were curiously red as well. 

“How was your ride in, brother? We missed you at my wedding,” Renly called out, laughter still in his voice. Stannis’s jaw clenched tighter at that.

“We’ve no need for the formalities here. I know why you’ve come, and you know what my answer will be.” His tone was short, clipped, and Sansa held her breath. 

“So ready to bend the knee, then? You don’t need to dismount here, I’ll take your word for it.” His smile was winningly jovial. She could hear Stannis grinding his teeth across the field. 

“I will not step down. My claim is better than yours, and I intend to use it.” The red woman shifted her horse farther forward, her face peculiarly shadowed.

“Your claim might be better, but my army is larger. The Stormlands has fielded their strength for me, and the Reach ever follows my dear wife. We count thirty thousand already, and growing every day. What do you have?” 

It was all a joke to him, Sansa realized. She had come with the intention of learning Lord Stannis, and what she had learned was that he was just as hard as everyone had warned. 

“Rocks and ruins, on Dragonstone.” Renly finished, and Stannis looked positively murderous. 

“The Stormlanders are mine by right.”

“And mine, by truth. If you’d like them, you can meet me on the field and take them.”

“This doesn’t need to resort to battle, my lords.” Sansa finally found her voice, and the red woman eyed her down. “Lord Stannis, your claim is better. Lord Renly, you would do the realm a service to combine your forces with your brother.” 

Renly scoffed at her then, and Loras looked at her with something akin to betrayal in his eyes. “You can leave us, then, and join Lord Stannis, if you think he’s the rightful king.” 

Sansa saw the truth of it then, in the way that Renly laughed at his older brother, in the way Stannis ground his teeth when faced with Renly’s antics. “I am on your side, Lord Renly, but the realm will bleed from this.” 

“The realm bleeds from much more than just war, Lady Sansa,” Stannis replied, his face hard. “It will be battle, then.” 

“So it shall,” Renly called, a smug grin on his face. 

The red woman was still silent, but she did not avert her eyes from Sansa the entire exchange. 

“I suppose I will be seeing you here again in a sennight.” Stannis turned his horse and rode for the ocean in the distance, and it was a long moment before his red woman turned to follow him.

“It seems I must deal with my brother before we set our sights on the capital. Shame, when winter is coming.” Renly’s eyes bored into Sansa, and she sighed.

“His claim is better, Renly, and you know that.” 

“Of course I know that,” he replied peevishly. “Stannis would make a terrible king.”

“The people do love you well.” Sansa turned her horse back towards the city, tossing her braid back over her shoulder. 

“We will squash my dear brother in the field, and then we’ll be free to march on. This is a momentary distraction, Lady Sansa, nothing more than that.” 

“And what if Stannis squashes you?” she found herself asking despite herself. The laughter it roused from Renly and Loras was cacophonous. 

Their confidence was both relaxing and disturbing. The red woman was too quiet, Renly too loud, and Sansa wished nothing more than to get out of the Baratheon stomping grounds. 

Jon helped her from the saddle when they arrived, his hands curled around her waist well after she had gotten her feet under her, and she laughed as they tickled her sides.

They were getting several curious glances from the stableboys, so she pulled him into the back of the building, where no one could see.

“What are you doing, you little minx?” Jon murmured as she planting her feet between his, running her hands up and down his chest.

“Getting a feel for things.” She winked at him saucily, and then let her hand drift further down, over the laces of his breeches.

“Sansa…” he groaned under her touch, and she pressed her palm more firmly against him, feeling wicked. 

“I’m sure we have a few minutes before they wonder where we are,” she purred in his ears, replacing her hand with her hips. His only response was a broken moan as he pulled her body to hers, their teeth clacking together in their rush.

He had worked several strands out of her braid and she had half unbuttoned his jerkin when one of the horses nickered and they jumped apart nervously, Sansa giggling under her breath.

“Our few minutes is up, I suppose.” He grinned at her from against the stable wall, and then checked that the stable was clear of stragglers before they ducked out into the open yard.  
When they were inside the castle proper, there was a raven waiting for her with the unbroken direwolf seal stamped over its folds. 

“Robb,” she gasped, before flying to her chambers, Jon close on her heels.

“What does it say?” he asked impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground.

“He’s called the banners.” Her face felt like a mask.

“That’s excellent news!” Jon was gripping her shoulders happily, shaking her a little. “What’s wrong, why aren’t you happy?”

“The lords have declared him King in the North.” 

Jon’s excited movements stuttered to a stop. 

“I need to meet with him.”

“What about Dorne?” Jon was confused, and rightfully so.

“Dorne and Myrcella can wait. The North will field twenty thousand men, and the Riverlands even more. This is too important to wait. I must go to him, convince him… Renly first.”

“What must you convince Renly of?” 

“The North will want to remain independent, of course.” She was pacing now, the scroll crumpled in her fist. “Once they’ve decided on something, they can be stubborn as mules.” 

She knelt, tossed the scroll into the fire, raked the coals over it. “To Renly, then.”

She met him in his solar, Margaery next to him, with her hair in its braid over her shoulder, armoring her heart. “My brother has called the banners, and is riding south.” 

Margaery leaned forward. “What a timely march.” 

“His lords have declared him King in the North. I believe we should let them.” Renly began to laugh again, and Sansa was getting quite irritated with his nature. 

“The North is vast, but it’s a wasteland. Your brother can have his icy wastes once the throne is ours.” 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. Too easy. “You ask for nothing in return?” 

Renly shrugged. “Only that they ride with me against Lord Tywin and his men, as my allies, and when the war is won, they acknowledge me as the king. After that, he’s welcome to his kingdom. The rest of us won’t miss it.”

“I beg your leave to go to him, to bring him your generous terms.” Margaery’s eyes, usually so friendly, were narrowed.

“You’re supposedly taking a tour of the South, my queen,” she reminded, her tone ungentle. “How strange it would be if someone saw you traveling north in such haste. The crown would want you back immediately.” 

“Are you threatening me?” Sansa worked to control her tone, her temper, her spine straight as ice. 

“You wouldn’t want to raise suspicions is all, dear girl. We’re just looking out for you.” Margaery held Sansa’s hand over the table, yet she found no warmth from it. 

“I didn’t even think of that.” Sansa smiled, clasped her hand, tilted her head. “I shall write to my brother instead. Myrcella needs escorting to Dorne, after all.” 

“A less risky endeavor. The Dornish will be wondering where you are soon, of course.” Margaery’s lips curled upwards, and Sansa pushed her chair back, excusing herself quickly and graciously.

When she traveled to the rookery, she stroked the feathers of one of the ravens, black and smooth as ink. 

After she had affixed the scroll to its leg, she sent the raven off south, the bright gold seal shining in the sun.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos! They've been so inspiring to me.
> 
> We finally earn that E rating, folks! Isn't it about time??

Renly called his court together for the first time that afternoon. He and Margaery sat in twin thrones atop a dais, and a crown danced in his jet-black hair for the first time.

“My lords and ladies,” he called down. “My dear brother Stannis has decided that it will indeed be war.”

A heavy murmur swept through the room like a fog. The men from the Reach had only arrived a scant few days before, and were still shaking the dust of the road off their clothes.

“After we have won this battle, we will march on the capital, where Queen Cersei and her bastard will answer for their crimes.”

Margaery spoke up then, her raised chin higher than any crown she may wear. “We hope to bring a new era of peace and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms. We will have mercy on those who served the last king, so long as they come peacefully to our side.” 

Her eyes met Sansa’s then, her jaw set, and Sansa tilted her head in return. 

The high lords stayed to talk strategy, but Sansa saw herself out through the back door, feeling Margaery’s eyes follow her back the entire way.

At the feast that night, she and Jon sat below the high table together, almost close enough to touch. 

“I shall require your help tonight,” she murmured close to his ear, under the guise of dumping some of her vegetables on his plate.

He kept his eyes carefully trained on his plate. “Whatever with?” 

“It’s best if you don’t ask.” Her lips barely moved. “Pack your things, but only as much as you can carry. Meet me in my chambers.”

“When, my lady?”

“The hour of the wolf.” She allowed herself the barest hint of a smile, then. 

When the soft knock came on her door, she rose quickly. She was already dressed in a woolen gown, a stolen pair of breeches hidden underneath, heavy boots, a black cloak and gloves resting on the desk next to her. 

Instead of calling him in, she swept on her cloak, grabbed her bag, and pushed him back into the hallway, her fingers on his lips to silence him.

There was no fear in his eyes, only curiosity, as she led him outside and back to the stables, wistfully thinking of their playful dalliances the day before. She wondered whether they would ever be able to again.

She saddled her mare quickly. She had often watched the stableboys at home in Winterfell when she would go riding, and so she knew the way of it well. Jon followed her lead, saddling his beloved sand steed, and when she launched herself into the saddle, hood pulled up to hide her bright hair, he was quick on her tail. 

She kept the horse to a quiet walk until they were out a postern gate, the guardsman sleeping at his post as he was wont to do, and then they took off into a quick canter to conserve the horses’ strength.

Only after an hour of hard riding did she slow her mare, tying the reins off next to a small stream to let her rest. 

“I take it we’re switching sides.” Jon had a wry smile on his face, his boots thudding on the ground next to her.

“Who said we were ever on Renly’s side?” Sansa countered, playfully, to hide her nervousness. 

“You did, for one.” 

“Margaery tried to keep me from my family.” She said it lightly, but her heart felt hard. “I sent a letter, to Prince Doran, asking him to call his banners. When the war is over, I’ve offered him to marry Arya to Trystane, they’re of an age.”

“You haven’t seen your sister in months, Sansa.”

“It’s time she does her duty.” She clasped her hands, staring out past the horses. “It’s only a proposal, anyway. She doesn’t need to be present yet.”

“It’s unkind,” he said, a little too harshly, but she let it go. 

“I hope you slept well last night. You won’t get much tonight.” 

“We’re going north, then?” 

“North, and west.” 

“And your father?”

“Do you think I’ve forgotten?” Sansa held back her tears. “I cannot ride back into the capital, not now, not when they think I should be gone for two more moons. Renly refuses to look to the capital until he deals with Stannis, and who knows how long that may take. My brother is marching to the capital to free my father now, and my place is with my family.”

“North, then.” His hand found hers, held tight against her belly, and their fingers intertwined. 

“We must ride by night, until we are into the riverlands,” Sansa warned him. “It will not be an easy ride.”

Jon rolled her eyes at her. “I’m practiced enough in stealth, Sansa. I know a few things about not getting captured. We are rebels, after all.” 

“About that.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I need your help.”

Some minutes later, his hands were scrunching through her hair as she knelt over the water, brown dye running downstream. She stood up, hair falling wetly around her shoulders, and his face crunched up at her. 

“What do you look so upset about?” Sansa asked, a little petulantly.

“I’ll be happy when it’s red again.” He tweaked the end of a strand, squeezing a stream of water out of it, and she huffed a sigh, hands already separating it into a simple Northern braid. 

“It’s much less obvious while we travel. It’ll take us at least two weeks to get to the Riverlands, and I don’t want to take chances.”

“Where did you even get dye like this?” 

“I filched it from the maester’s when he was at the brothel.” She shrugged, tying off the end of her braid. “It’s not like he really needed to hide his gray hairs.” 

He laughed then, a true laugh, and helped her back into her saddle. 

It took them over a week of sleeping in caves, deep in the kingswood, their bodies curled together intimately but innocently, before King’s Landing came into sight beyond the trees. 

They had been lucky enough that they had hardly seen a soul on their ride. Once, a wandering septon had passed by with a creaky cart, but they had led the horses deeper into the woods and held their breath, Sansa shaking slightly, until he had passed far enough to not hear them.

Sansa frowned at the red stones, still a few hours’ ride away. She might be less recognizable with her hair darkened, but Jon was still entirely too attractive for anyone to think he was someone else. He was too recognizable, with his curls and his biceps and his tanned skin. 

They ended up sneaking around the city’s west side in the dead of night, finding a bridge that had somehow been left unguarded to their massive luck and leading their horses over the Gold Road and into the fields to the northwest of the castle.

They rode hard that night until their horses were lathered and panting, stopping only when the capital was a fading speck in the distance. 

The horses grazed in a deserted field, and Sansa flopped down in the grass. All of the riding had been wearing on her, and her pack was almost empty of food now. She was hoping they could forage some berries in the woods on their way, but she had found none she trusted so far, and they both were cranky from lack of sustenance.

In only four days, she should be at Riverrun, and she imagined that they would feast once they were there. If only she had a chicken, basted in honey and lemon… 

“Are you still in there?” Jon teased, waving a hand in front of her face. “You were practically drooling. 

“I was dreaming of the feast that’s awaiting us at Riverrun,” she confessed, tugging her braid self-consciously. 

“I can’t fault you there. What I would give for a good trout…” Jon leaned back on his hands, kicking his legs out in front of him, and Sansa followed the smooth line from his ankles all the way up to his neck. 

She rolled onto her side then, propped up on her elbow, and his gaze moved in much the same way hers just did. _Good._

“What’s on your mind, kind ser?” She grinned, her free hand resting on his chest, toying with the laces on his shirt. 

“Nothing that a highborn lady such as yourself should ever have to hear.” He allowed her to keep playing with his laces as his hand drifted to her hip. The moon was finally full, and the light washed out his skin, painting him in shades of gray. 

“What if the highborn lady asked?” Sansa kissed the shell of his ear then, noticing how he sighed and readjusted his legs. 

“Wicked girl,” he muttered as he rolled on top of her, his arms like a cage around her face. 

“Not so wicked,” she laughed, tilting her chin up to him, and he had no choice but to lean down and capture her soft lips, her nose bumping against his.

She settled down farther and he felt her hands tracing down his chest as he nipped at her lower lip, yanking his shirt upwards until it was tangled near his shoulders.

“Off,” she panted, wrestling with it, and he rocked back onto his knees to pull it over his head and toss it off to the side. She was watching him, eyes wide with desire as she stared at his chest, following the line down his belly to his breeches, and her hand strayed towards his laces as they had in the stables that day. 

She stroked him gently, then harder, and he fell back on top of her, bruising her lips in a fierce kiss. She moaned under him, her hand pressing harder until she finally worked the laces loose and he wiggled his hips to help her pull them off.

He was only in smallclothes now and she could see his cock straining against the cloth, a small damp spot near the tip. He had stopped kissing her to stare down at her hand, so small against him. 

“Off?” It was a question this time, not a command, and he groaned with a nod, rolling over to his back to work them down to his ankles.

“You’re still fully dressed,” he pointed out with a gasp as her finger traced him from tip to base. 

“What a tragedy.” She wrapped her hand around him then and hesitated, unsure. 

“Here,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around hers. She stroked him up and down, reveling in the smooth slide of his flesh in her palm, watching in astonishment as a bead of fluid welled up and then dripped down into her hand. 

His back was arching slightly, head tossing on the ground as she quickened her pace, his cock impossibly hard in her hand. She loved the sight of it, of her small hand covered by his large one, of the tip of his cock disappearing into her palm. 

All of a sudden he was pulling her hand away, the muscles in his stomach too tight, his face drawn. “What is it?” she whispered.

“I don’t want to…” he trailed off nervously, but his hands fluttered near his cock, and she quickly understood. 

“Stand up, come along.” He tripped out of his smallclothes, still tangled around his ankle, and joined her a few feet away from the horses. 

“Can you… aim it, at all?” Sansa blushed, hoping he couldn’t see it in the dark. Jon nodded jerkily, and her hand covered his cock again, rubbing underneath the tip. 

He groaned, head tilted back to expose his neck, and she pressed a quick kiss to his collarbone, fisting up and down his length. His breaths were more shaky now, and he was leaning on her slightly, his stomach muscles flexing. 

She kissed his collarbone again and then licked up his neck, pumping him all the while, and then gathered her strength at the shell of his ear. “Come for me, Jon,” she purred, squeezing her fist a little tighter, and he moaned a string of epithets before covering her fist with his own and gasping as his rhythm faltered under her hand.

Sansa pressed her face into his neck as he came down from his high, resting her damp palm on the planes of his stomach. 

When he finally came back to himself, he chuckled quietly before tipping her chin up to kiss her thoroughly. 

“I’ve a mind to repay the favor.” His grin was crooked, wicked, but she stopped his hand before it could work the laces on her chest free. 

“Tomorrow,” she promised, holding his hand tight. “We need to make more progress tonight.”

Jon mock pouted at that, but pressed a kiss to her forehead instead. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Get dressed, I’ll get the horses.” She gave his hand one last squeeze before untying their reins, jumping into her saddle before Jon so much as pulled his breeches up. 

As they were trotting northward again, she untied and rebraided her hair to calm the nervous feeling in her stomach. Only another day until they were in the Riverlands, and another three before they might reach Riverrun, gods be good. 

She needed to speak with her brother, now more than ever, and pray that he would listen.


	17. Chapter 17

The next day passed slowly, but they were both more relaxed as they crossed over into Riverlands territory. Sansa finally felt comfortable enough to ride on the kingsroad again, and the clop of the horses’ hooves was strangely soothing. 

“How long are you planning to stay in the Riverlands, Sansa?” Jon asked after a long lull in their conversation.

She sighed wearily. “I’m not sure.” Sansa fiddled with the end of her braid, picking at the strands that had worked their way loose. “If Robb refuses to ride with Renly…”

“Is that such a big possibility?” 

“Unfortunately.” She flexed her toes in her boots. “You don’t know Northerners. Loyal to their own, but stubborn to a fault. Robb may not agree to ally with Renly, especially not when Stannis has the better claim. And I doubt my opinion will do much.” 

“If your opinion won’t help, then why did we sneak out of Storm’s End that way?” 

Her silence was more telling than anything else, and the hard way she stared into the distance. 

“You don’t plan on going back, do you?” Jon jerked his horse to a halt.

She sighed again before pulling her reins as well. “No, I don’t.”

“You left Myrcella there alone.” Jon looked dumbfounded, his shoulders tight and hard. 

“She’s not alone, she’s with the Hound.” Her voice was creeping higher with every word. “I got her out of the capital, Margaery loves her as well as I do and it may convince Joffrey and Cersei to be more lenient with their terms.” 

“You gave them a hostage, Sansa!” Jon looked ready to vault off his horse. “Is this really how you treat your friends? Your family by law?” 

“I don’t have any authority there, Jon!” Her voice was shriller than she could ever remember. “I was effectively a hostage, too, and so were you. Margaery doesn’t care about helping my family, she cares about putting Renly’s pretty little arse on the Iron Throne and if my father died in the meantime, it was less for her to worry about. I am doing what I must do to help my true family!” 

Her back was stiff and straight, her legs aching from how hard she was pushing them into the stirrups. 

“Are you even going to _try_ to convince Robb to switch sides?” His voice was deadly low. 

“Of course I’ll try.” Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “I have zero confidence that he’ll listen. Kings don’t take well to being told what to do by their little sisters.” 

“It sounds like you’ve given up already.” 

“I will do my best to do what is right for our country, Jon,” she hissed. “The North has already declared their independence and is marching on the capital. Stannis and Renly are squabbling over the South as we speak, I’m sure one of them has triumphed over the other by now. An alliance is in everyone’s best interest.” 

“Including your own?” His voice cut through her like a knife. 

“Of course.” She glared at him with whatever strength left she could muster. “I have no interest in being queen, Jon, you know that.”

He seemed to deflate like a balloon. “I do know that. You just… you never tell me anything, Sansa. You just expect me to follow your lead and trust you, and I do trust you, but if we’re going to make this work, you have to include me in your plots.” 

“‘Going to make this work?’ What is ‘this’?” She couldn’t help but tease, all of the fight going out of her. 

“You know very well what ‘this’ is, Sansa,” Jon growled at her.

“Jon Sand. Are you admitting that you have affection for me?” She placed her hand over her heart, fawning slightly. 

“Stop that,” he grumbled, but she could see a slight flush on his chest. 

“Admit it. You’ve grown fond of me.” She grinned at him.

He mumbled something incoherent under his breath, and Sansa danced her mare closer to poke him in the arm. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’ve grown fond of you!” Jon burst, exasperated, but she could see the hint of a smile around the edges of his lips. 

Several seconds passed before she finally gave in. “I’m sorry I’ve left you in the dark, Jon. I’ll try to include you in my _plots,_ from now on.” She said it teasingly, but grasped his hand over the gap between them to show him her sincerity. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He brought her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss before releasing it. The kingsroad stretched out in front of them, long and thin, reminding them of how far they still must ride.

“We may be able to stay in an inn tonight.” Sansa ached to sleep on something other than the hard ground, as they had been for over a week now. 

“Truly?” Jon asked, and she could sense his excitement even when he wasn’t looking at her.

“I have some coin, and we may not be recognized with my hair darkened.” She passed him a smile. The sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky, and the promise of a hot meal and a straw bed was burning bright in her chest. 

It was full dark when they finally found an inn. They had ridden their horses too hard, in truth, and they passed them off to a stableboy who looked astonished at the lather they had worked the poor beasts into. 

They entered the inn somewhat conspicuously. Although they were dusty, dirty, and travel-worn, their clothes were well-made and Jon couldn’t seem to keep his hand off the pommel of his longsword, no matter how many times Sansa nudged him. 

The innkeep brought them a hearty, dark stew served in a trencher, and they gulped it down eagerly. Sansa stopped only to take long pulls of a dark ale, and Jon matched her pace for pace. When they finally finished their meal, a bawdy drinking song being played by a singer in the background, Sansa pressed an extra coin into the innkeep’s hand on their way up the stairs, hoping it would be enough to buy her silence on anything she may suspect. 

The bed wasn’t huge, but it was large enough for both of them to lay across comfortably, and Sansa flopped down the second Jon had the door shut behind them. 

“A _bed!_ ” she crowed happily, waving her arms like she was making a snow angel. Jon chuckled quietly.

“You know, in a few days we’ll be in Riverrun, and we’ll sleep in a bed every night.” His eyes glinted at her coyly as he lay down at her side, wrapping her up in his arms tightly. 

“We’ll sleep in different beds, though.” His face fell slowly, but his hands smoothed over her back. 

“We don’t have to.”

“We do,” she insisted. “I’m still married, you know.”

“I doubt you will be for long,” he said darkly, and Sansa poked at the furrows in his forehead. 

“For now, I am still married to Joffrey, and I don’t anticipate my rebel brother allowing me to sleep in the same bed as my loyal sworn sword.” 

Jon still looked apprehensive. “Do you think he’ll take to me well?” 

“Robb, you mean?” 

He nodded, his face tight. 

“I think he will be delighted to learn that he has a cousin. We’ve only had cousin Robert until now, you know, and he was a bit of a disappointment.” She smiled gently, stroking his cheek when his expression didn’t change. 

“I’m your sworn protector, yet I’m your cousin, yet I’m your lover… I fear it will all be too much at once.” His eyes fluttered shut, lashes long against his cheek, and Sansa burrowed deeper into his arms. 

“It will… not be without difficulty,” she admitted. “But, he is in the midst of a war. I’m sure he won’t be too focused on the intricacies of our relationship.” She kissed his cheek gently, then his chin, then the tip of his nose. “Robb always longed for a brother his age, someone who could practice swordplay with him and be a true confidante. He had our father’s ward, Theon, but Theon is much older than he is, and in truth… I think he will like you very much, Jon.” 

“I hope so,” he whispered, and Sansa ached for how vulnerable he sounded. 

“Do you ever miss Dorne?” she murmured, running her free hand up and down his back. “I miss Winterfell quite often.”

She felt his chest rise, and then fall in a great gust of breath. “I miss Allyria sometimes. She was not my mother, but she felt like one in many ways. And I miss Oberyn, quite often. Dorne itself, though? I prefer the North.” 

His hands were still resting on her back, and now he started to trace tiny patterns with the tips of his fingers. Sansa laughed breathlessly, nuzzling her face into his neck and pressing a kiss to the hollow below. “You’ve never been to the North,” she pointed out. 

“Aye, but I anticipate I’ll be spending a lot of time there in the future.” She laughed breathlessly, and his hands ghosted from her back to her sides, warm yet firm. 

She lifted her chin and kissed his lips gently. “I’m sure you would be warmly welcomed in the North.” 

He found the bottom of her braid with one hand, pulling the tie free and running through the newly-freed hair with his hands. “Can the North welcome anyone warmly in the middle of winter?” His hands dove fully into her hair, a deep mahogany in the dark room, and he could only barely see the wry look on her face.

“You’d be surprised at how warm we can be.” She had the slightest of smirks on her face.

“Will I be surprised?” he growled. He yanked the tie at the small of her back free, working the laces loose before rolling until he was on top of her. His arms bracketed her face, with her hair splayed out on the bed. She was flushed and her breathing irregular, but her eyes were wide and happy. 

“I suppose it depends.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead before working his way down. Her dress was in the way, but he yanked it down as he went, nuzzling at her neck and her breasts in turn. “We have… a great deal… of affection… for our friends,” she managed to gasp out as he lapped at one nipple and then sucked it into his mouth, rolling his tongue over it slowly. 

“Would you call us friends, my lady?” he murmured as he switched from one breast to the other, laving it in similar attention. 

“I suppose… it’s an understatement,” she groaned as she arched her back and his tongue made its way lower. He kept pulling her dress as he went, until it was tangled around her hips and his tongue was dipping into her belly button. “Oh, just take it off!” she finally burst out, lifting her hips so that Jon could tug the skirts down and she could kick them onto the floor.

“Much better,” he mumbled against her skin, still so warm underneath him. A scrap of silk was all that was between his mouth and her skin now, but as he kissed his way lower, her hands shot down to his head.

“What are you doing?” she ground out, her expression one of shock. 

He looked up at her, eyes smoldering. “I told you I wanted to repay the favor.”

Sansa propped herself up on her elbows. “With your mouth?” Her expression was more confused now than anything, and Jon paid her a handsome smirk.

“Trust me, you’ll like it.” He traced a stripe up her center and she sank back down onto her back, a silent acquiescence. 

“May I?” he murmured against her, his hands tugging at her hips, and she raised them just enough for him to tug her smallclothes down roughly, tossing them on the floor with the rest of her clothes.

If he thought her breasts were perfect, he was in awe of her cunt. Although he had barely started, her outer lips glistened prettily underneath her curls. Jon wasted no time in diving back in, lapping gently at her until he could part her lips and twist his tongue onto her clit, causing her to sigh heavily.

He traced her gently, easily, until she had relaxed her hips back down onto the bed. Sansa tangled her hands in his hair, reveling in the unfamiliar sensations. She had never done more than press herself against his knee or his hips, and it was almost blinding, how good his mouth felt on her. 

When he eased one finger into her, she thought she could see stars. Her eyes were shut tightly, yet the image of his curls between her legs was impressed on her memory. When he began to move inside her, she shuddered, feeling a tight coil winding itself around deep in her stomach.

She moaned, her hips starting to shiver, only encouraging him to bury his face deeper in her. It was like that, with one finger deep inside and his tongue gently soothing her clit, that something finally snapped inside her and she groaned, eyes squeezed tightly shut and fingers wound in his hair. 

It was several long moments before he finally pulled away from her. Her limbs were weak on the bed, but she raised her arms to invite him to lie next to her again. 

“You’re still dressed,” she mumbled, one hand fiddling tiredly with the laces on his jerkin. 

“Should I not be?” His grin was wicked, and she could see the dampness clinging to his beard still. 

“You’d be more comfortable.” She nudged her head underneath his chin, sighing happily when his arms encircled her. 

“I’m plenty comfortable now.” Sansa felt him press a long, slow kiss to the top of her head and she drifted off to sleep, the happiest she could remember being in her life.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of things are happening at once! I'm realizing that this fic has gotten a bit out of control, so it may be a bit fast-paced from now on. Thanks for reading, as always!

When the gates of Riverrun finally appeared before then, Sansa let out a breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding for the past two weeks. 

“I hope this is my brother’s army, and not the Lannister’s,” she muttered under her breath upon spying the great camp outside the walls of the castle. 

“I don’t see any banners,” Jon muttered. “Stay here.” 

She frowned at him but let him ride ahead. If there was any trouble ahead, she would rather Jon find it first. 

Ten minutes later, Jon came back with three other men on horseback with him. 

“Lord Cerwyn, Lord Karstark, Lady Mormont. It’s good to see you all.” Sansa nodded at them as they peered at her. Lord Cerwyn seemed uncertain, but Dacey Mormont immediately broke into a grin. 

“You’re a sight for sore eyes as ever, Lady Sansa,” she replied cheekily. 

“How fares my brother?” 

“Restless, and ready to march. Your uncle insisted that our army help clear out the Lannister’s from picking at his lands, but we are anxious to march on the capital, what with everything that’s going on.” 

“What do you mean, everything?” Sansa spurred her horse forward, toward them and the castle beyond.

The lords exchanged a nervous look. “How long have you been riding, my lady?” 

“We have been traveling for a fortnight. There can’t be much we’ve missed.” Sansa tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat at the uneasy way Dacey pranced her horse sideways. 

“Allow me to escort you to the castle, my lady. I’m sure there’s much you’d like to discuss with your brother the king.” 

“Thank you, Dacey.” 

When Sansa pushed open the doors to Edmure’s solar, every eye in the room was trained on her. 

“Sansa?” Robb looked confused more than anything. 

She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder, wishing she had had time to wash the dye out before interrupting. “Dacey tells me there’s news from the capital.”

“There’s always news from the capital,” rumbled a large man at Robb’s right hand. Lord Umber, she realized quickly, the Greatjon. 

“We’ve been traveling for a fortnight. What have we missed?” She took a seat at the opposite side of the table as Robb, and the lords around exchanged uneasy looks. 

“We’re in the middle of a war council here, Sansa. If you would just wait until-”

“No, I will not wait.” She met each of their gazes in turn, refusing to bend for them. “Father is being held prisoner and I’ve been on the run for a fortnight. Tell me what I need to know.” 

Robb sighed heavily. “My lords, please forgive my sister. We will reconvene after lunch.” 

Sansa held her head high as the lords filed out of the room, ignoring the dirty looks some shot her way. When the door finally swung shut, she placed both palms on the table. “Tell me what I’ve missed.” 

“There’s no news of Father, unfortunately. Cersei is insisting that he be tried for the crimes of treason. Apparently he’d been sending ravens to Stannis, calling her children bastards.”

“They are bastards.” Sansa replied idly. 

“Well, yes, but that’s not quite the point.”

“What about Stannis and Renly? Who won the battle?”

Robb looked at her strangely. “The battle?”

“Yes, the battle, Robb. When we left, they had planned a battle for the next morning. Who won?” She felt like she was explaining something to a toddler. 

“There was no battle, Sansa.” 

She scoffed at that. “So they just laid down their weapons and decided to love each other, I suppose?” 

“No, of course not. The tales of it are… strange.” Robb folded his hands together, his gaze wandering around anywhere but meeting hers.

“Strange how?” 

He sighed heavily. “Some say that Loras killed him, but that’s just a ridiculous assumption. Loras says that he saw a shadow slip in and slit Renly’s throat. Some others say it was the guard on the door, who ran after he saw it happen. No matter which story you believe, they all end in Renly’s death.” 

“So Stannis has Renly’s army now, I assume.” Sansa pursed her lips. “What about his wife?”

“Who, Lady Selyse?” 

“No, Lady Margaery. What happened when her husband had his throat slit in the night? I can’t imagine she went off peacefully to Stannis.” 

“Sansa…” Robb hesitated before coming around the table to sit in the seat next to her. 

“Just tell me.” 

“Margaery went running back to the capital the second she found out.” 

Sansa couldn’t help but scoff again. “Fat lot of good that’ll do her. Cersei hates her.” 

“Cersei seems to like her more than she likes you. She’s pronounced you a traitor to the crown, off of whatever tale Margaery spun for her.” 

“Margaery was a traitor as well,” Jon pointed out from the corner of the room. Sansa had forgotten he was even there.

“A traitor with a good family name, who came to the Red Keep with Myrcella in one hand and the bounty of the Reach in the other. Rumor has it that Cersei wants to annul your marriage to Joffrey and crown Margaery the new queen, for her _loyalty to the crown._ ” Robb spat out the last few words, grinding his teeth. 

Sansa laughed bitterly. “She’s welcome to Joffrey. Maybe she can handle that monster better than I could.” 

Robb looked at her strangely for that, but his eyes drifted back to Jon. “I suppose this is your sworn sword. Father told us in a letter that you were getting along well.” 

“Forgive my manners,” she muttered. “Robb, this is Ser Jon Sand. He is a knight from Dorne…” she trailed off, not sure how to finish. 

Jon bowed as she paused, finally coming forward to stand at Sansa’s side. “I would protect your sister with my life,” he told Robb solemnly, and Robb glanced back and forth between the two of them.

The silence stretched out a beat too long, before Sansa asked “When do we march on the capital?” 

Robb sighed. “Never soon enough. Uncle Edmure insists he needs use of my men to raid the Lannisters, but we’ve never been more ready to move. If I wait much longer, men will want to go home, and I need them to sack King’s Landing.”

“Have you sent a raven to Stannis?” 

Robb scowled at her. “Stannis has agreed to help us, but only if he rules the North afterward. I rejected his proposal.” 

“Robb, we need his men,” she hissed at him. “You can’t fight Cersei and Stannis at the same time!” 

“And with any luck, we won’t have to.” His face was hard, closed off. “Stannis is still ensconced at Dragonstone with the majority of his men. I can’t give Cersei any more time to ready her armies. If you hadn’t interrupted my council so rudely, I would have had a plan in place to march on the capital by now.” 

“Forgive me for interrupting, then.” She stood stiffly, gathering her dusty skirts around her. “Tell me when you plan to leave. I would like to come with.”

“Sansa, you can’t _come with_.” She wasn’t facing him, but she could hear the roll of his eyes in his voice. 

“I can, and I will,” she said, deadly low. “Dacey Mormont rides with you, and she’s a woman as well. I will stay in the camp during the fighting, but when the city has fallen, I want to be one of the first in that throne room.” 

“I know that they didn’t treat you kindly in the capital, but this is war. Sansa, you can’t even fight.” He was almost laughing at that point, but stopped when she slammed her fists on the table in front of him. 

“I have more of a right to hear Joffrey surrender than you or anyone in your army. Half of the men in your army couldn’t fight the day before you shoved an old sword in their hands, so don’t you dare presume to tell me I can’t come as well.” 

He stared at her, shocked, with Jon looming behind her silently. “I didn’t mean…”

“You meant every word you said,” Sansa snapped, tears gathering in the backs of her eyes. “I will ride with you, and when we arrive in the Red Keep, I want to be the first one down to the dungeon to free Father, even if I have to pry the key out of Cersei’s cold, dead hands.” 

She stalked out of the room angrily then before the tears spilled over, determined not to let Robb see her cry. 

True to her word, when his men were saddling up two mornings later to move on the capital, Sansa picked her way to the head of the army on her mare with Jon at her side. 

“Sansa, I’ve told you plenty of times. You can’t come with us.” 

Sansa could see how desperately Robb was trying to remain calm in front of his bannermen and his army. “I heard you. I’m choosing not to listen.” 

Robb heaved a deep sigh, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Jon. 

“You’ll stay at the camp until the city is secured, and then I’ll send Jon to bring you to us.” 

Sansa revelled in the brief taste of triumph, until his words settled in. “What do you mean, send Jon?” 

There was a glint of something in Robb’s eyes. “We need good men to fight for us, Sansa. Jon will ride with me into the city, and when we’ve won, he’ll ride back to you.” 

She struggled with her anger, a heavy breath stuck in her chest. “Jon is _my_ protector. You would leave your sister unguarded?” 

“I’ll personally assign an honor guard for your safety, although you’ll be well out of the way of any fighting.” 

She bit her lip, but nodded briefly, refusing to meet his gaze. “Let’s go, then.” Sansa spurred her mare past him, her anger getting the better of her as she left Robb behind her on the road.

It wasn’t long before Jon was at her side, close enough to speak but giving her her space. 

“Robb knows.” She heaved a long exhale, the reins pressing deep into her palms.

“He doesn’t know,” Jon argued, but there was a hard set to his jaw. 

“He knows about us, Jon, or he at least suspects. It’s why he’s testing us.” 

“What test?” Jon looked baffled.

“He’s sending you into the thick of battle to see how I respond. It’s a test, and one that I intend to pass.” She kept her voice cool, focusing on the deep ruts in the road in front of them. 

“We could just tell him, you know,” Jon drawled, and all of a sudden she could see a smirk on his face that she had missed. 

“I may be married to a bastard, but I am still wed. I don’t intend on the world knowing I took a lover.” 

“Is that all I am to you?” His voice burned her like the sharpest flame. “Your _mistress?_ ”

“Of course you’re more than my mistress, you know that.” Sansa rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t think the rest of the world would see it that way, though.”

“Fuck the rest of the world.”

Sansa pursed her lips to keep from laughing at him, tipping her head back to soak in the sunshine on her skin. “Can you believe we came all this way just to go right back to the capital?” 

“Would that we had stayed.” His tone was playful, though, not serious.

“Joffrey was never kind to me when my family was loyal,” Sansa mused. “I don’t want to think of what I would have endured if I was there while my brother was marching an army up to his gates.” She felt cold suddenly, his face swimming before her eyes. 

She tightened her grip on the reins again, settling into her saddle. It was a long ride back to the capital.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! This chapter was a bear. Hoping you all enjoy!

The city wailed before her, and the country slept behind. 

Sansa waited on a low hill north of the capital, her brother’s men all around her. _My men, now,_ she reminded herself, yet she couldn’t bring herself to relax.

She couldn’t see much of the details - Robb had commanded his men to attack in the earliest hours of the morning, and the sun had not yet dawned. But what she could not see, she could hear. 

From here, she could hear the war raging as clearly as if she was in Maegor’s still. Horses screamed, men shouted, and she could hear fire crackling as clearly as if she were in her chambers still, next to the hearth. She had no idea whether her brother was winning or losing, but Sansa refused to lose hope. 

When the sun dawned over Blackwater Bay, shattering the sea into a million orange-tipped crystals, it felt nearly ironic. 

The city was still screaming when Jon rode up the hill toward her. 

His armor was crusted with blood, his hair matted to his neck with sweat, dents and tears rent along his arms and chest. He was still ahorse, although it was a different destrier than he rode in on, and his lips were set in a grim line. 

“Come, my lady,” he called when he was within range. “The Red Keep awaits.” 

Sansa pushed forward, caring not for her guards, and joined him. 

As they picked their way through the city, she wanted to throw up. 

Men laid everywhere, either dead or dying. Crimson or grey, it made no difference. War claimed them both. 

One man was laying next to the narrow path they were sticking to, his guts spilling out of his belly like so many snakes. He hissed a quiet breath, and she was just close enough to hear “Mercy.” Something twisted in her chest at that, and she yanked her horse to a stop.

“Jon.” When he whipped his head around, already several yards ahead, he looked more confused than anything. 

“Give me your dagger, please.” He pursed his lips into a thin, angry line, but he spurred his horse back and handed her the dagger from his belt. 

Sansa slid off her horse, feeling the soft leather handle in her palm. As she knelt next to the man, he coughed weakly. “Mercy, my lady.” 

His blood was seeping into the knees of her gown, but she cared not. “Mercy,” she whispered, slipping the dagger across his throat. 

It was a small cut, but as his blood pumped onto the cobblestones, her tears followed it. _This is the price of war,_ she reminded herself. _This is what it takes to bring Father home._

She clambered back onto her horse, her dress stained from the knees down, and continued forward. 

By the time the Red Keep’s doors loomed in front of her, her tears had hardened into a cool mask on her face. The guards on the door were tired and desperate, but the sight of the Stark sigil on the banners gave them all strength. As she came closer, the figure in the middle of the doors came into view: her brother, muddy and bloody, holding his left arm in a strangely bent position, but alive. 

She wanted to throw herself down and hug him, but she stayed mounted. They were so close now. 

“Is Cersei inside?” 

Robb nodded. “Along with Joffrey and Tommen. We haven’t found Myrcella yet, or Margaery.” 

“They must be in Maegor’s still.” _Or gone._ Sansa didn’t put it past Margaery to run again when events in the capital began to sour. It was entirely possible that they were halfway to Highgarden by now. 

“What are we waiting for, then?” Without waiting for an answer, she stared at the guards on the door until they pushed it open for her.

The throne room was just beginning to lighten, the sun finally having pushed its way up far enough to reach the high windows. Joffrey towered over them on the throne, and Cersei and Tommen were standing at its base, her arms wrapped around him protectively. 

Once Sansa neared the front, she slid off her horse and approached them on foot. Joffrey sneered at her as she came closer, her boots clicking on the ground. “Have you come to apologize, wife?” 

“I have come for my father, Lord Eddard Stark,” she responded evenly. ‘

“Your father is a traitor to the crown,” Joffrey rose at that and started making his way down the steps of the throne, gold glittering from his doublet, his boots, and the antlered crown nestled among his hair. 

“You yourself are a traitor to the crown,” she spat back, and Joffrey’s fists clenched angrily. He was almost to the floor now, but she turned her head sharply to Cersei, still clutching Tommen.

“Where is my father?” 

Her lip curled, but she did not speak. 

Robb came up to join Sansa then, much to her irritation. “You’ve lost, Cersei. Your army has fled. Tell me where our father is, and I will spare your life.” 

“My life is already forfeit.” Cersei pushed Tommen behind her then and strode forward, her hands clasped together calmly. 

“You have another option than death. Give us our father, and we will leave your sorry southron capital.” 

Cersei laughed then, only a few feet away from them. Joffrey had paused at the foot of the throne, watching their exchange warily. “You would sack my city only to leave it for me?”

Sansa pushed in front of Robb then, her frustration mounting but her voice cool. “Stannis Baratheon comes soon, the true heir to your throne. We have only come for our father and our independence. Give us those two small things, and we will leave you to the remaining six kingdoms.”

 

“And if I do not give you your father, or your independence?”

Sansa shrugged. “Then, we kill you and your sorry bastard son, leave your city ungoverned until Stannis Baratheon comes to assume your throne, and retreat to the North. We are an independent kingdom now, and I for one could care less about the state of affairs in our neighboring kingdoms.”

Cersei’s emerald eyes narrowed, and Sansa thought she saw a hint of confusion there. _I am not the silly little girl you thought I was,_ she thought, and it gave her strength.

“Tommen and Myrcella live.” 

Sansa’s lips quirked. “You don’t care to fight for Joffrey’s life, as well?”

“I’m not an idiot,” the older woman snapped. “I know his life is forfeit. I only plead for my younger children to be allowed to live.”

Joffrey’s head snapped to her at that, his mouth hanging open obscenely. “Mother!” 

She ignored him, her eyes trained on Sansa’s. “Tommen and Myrcella live,” she agreed. “They will be stripped of their house names and attainted as bastards. House Stark will personally take in Tommen as ward, and I will arrange for a worthy marriage for Myrcella.”

She could hear Robb grinding his teeth next to her, but she didn’t care. Cersei looked ready to pounce. “How do I know my children will be treated fairly when they are taken in by our enemies?” 

“My father is an honorable man, and he will be the one to take in Tommen.” Robb said. “You trust his honor, if nothing else.” 

“I do this as a kindness to you and your family, for treating me so well when I was in the Red Keep,” Sansa said evenly. 

Cersei looked back and forth between Sansa and Robb. “Your father is in the black cells. The key is gone. I hope he rots.” She spat then, before Sansa’s feet, and Robb beckoned the guards forward with a lazy hand. 

Cersei allowed them to chain her hands behind her back, a strange calmness to her as she walked with them out of the throne room. Joffrey still stood before them, seemingly in shock as his face reddened, and Tommen had curled up on the steps, hugging his knees. 

“Joffrey, too,” Robb called, and the guards had to wrestle his sword and dagger off his belt after he seemed to snap out of his trace, writhing and screaming at them before dragging him out after his mother. 

“We’ll hang them on the morrow at dawn.” Sansa said, already turning to walk back to her mare. She turned her mount around and spurred her towards the doors, not caring if Robb followed.

When she reached the entrance to the dungeons, she was surprised to find Jon at her side, dismounting next to her. 

“He’s my uncle, too,” Jon said quietly, and she nodded.

When they reached the black cells, the gaoler scowled at them. “Take us to see Ned Stark.”

“The queen herself said no one sees him.” 

“The queen is our hostage, and my brother has taken your sad city. Take me to my father.” 

He frowned, and spat, and then led them down the darkest of hallways with only a candle held in front of him.

“Here.” He kicked a wooden door. “Don’t have no key though, so good luck to you.” 

Sansa pressed both her palms against the door. “Father?” 

There was no response, and she felt the tears burning in her eyes. “Father, can you hear me?”

“Step back, Sansa.” Jon had backed up, and she scooted to the side warily.

Jon clenched his fists and then kicked the door once, twice, a third time, until the old wood was starting to splinter around the lock. “Careful, now,” she whispered, and he grinned wryly at her. 

With two more kicks, he had created an apple-sized hole in the rotting wood, and Sansa shoved her fist inside eagerly, feeling for the lock on the other side. 

When the door finally swung open, it was so dark inside she couldn’t make heads or tails of the space. She stumbled to her knees, patting the floor and the straw frantically until she heard a quiet, weak cough, her eyes adjusting to the dark. “Father!” 

She could barely make out his form, curled into the farthest corner, but she flung her arms around him as well he could. It stank of dirt and urine, of the deepest caves, but she didn’t care. Sansa sobbed into his chest, and after a long moment, his arms came up to hold her as well. 

“The sweetest dream…” Ned murmured, and she sobbed out a laugh. 

“It’s not a dream, Father. It’s me, it’s Sansa, I’m here.” 

Jon had stepped into the cell as best he could then. “Let me help him up,” he urged her, and she wiped her tears on the sleeve of her shirt, scrambling back on her hands and knees to give Jon more space.

Lord Eddard Stark emerged back into daylight for the first time in weeks supported by Sansa on one side and Jon on the other, blinking rapidly at the bright sunlight. When they were halfway back across the yard, Robb came sprinting at them, stopping short as he saw his father.

Sansa saw his chin wobble for the first time since they were children. “Father,” he breathed out, and then lunged the last few feet to hug him. 

Ned staggered back under the force, and Sansa saw a weak smile cross his face. After a long moment, Sansa touched Robb’s arm. “Father needs food, and to rest.” 

“Of course, of course. Let me.” He pulled Sansa out from under Ned’s arm, replacing her instantly with his right arm under his father, still cradling his left. “Lead the way.” 

Sansa maneuvered them to her old room in the Red Keep, ghosts lurking around every turn. As she suspected, the rest of her things were still there, including the great copper bathtub that Joffrey had preferred. 

“Wait here,” she ordered, and Robb looked at her in shock. Jon helped Ned into an armchair with a grunt, settling down in the chair next to him.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to find where all the servants are hiding, so they can help me draw a bath and find some food.” Sansa rolled her eyes, already halfway to the door. 

“You’ve covered in blood,” he pointed out helpfully, and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. 

“I’m more worried about Father, who has been _locked in a dungeon_ for the past two weeks,” she hissed, before hurrying out the door without another glance.

She found several maids hiding in an alcove two corridors down, and with a bit of soothing, they agreed to get a tray from the kitchens and fetch water, respectively. 

They still curtsied and called her queen, which made Sansa want to chuckle. _You’d think the gossipy maids would be the first to know,_ she mused. She was no longer a queen, and would never be again. It was a great relief to know. 

Sansa half walked, half ran to the Tower of the Hand, where she fetched a spare outfit, praying that it was one that still fit, and hurried back to her old chambers.

By the time she arrived, her father was slumped over in his seat, picking at the tray in front of him, and the bath was half filled with steaming water. 

“Cersei?” Ned asked weakly, between bites.

“In a tower cell,” Robb answered, wringing his hands. “Joffrey too.” 

“What about Stannis?” 

Sansa hesitated before answering. “Stannis has refused to help us, but he will be marching on the capital soon, if our scouts are correct.” One of them had returned only a few hours before they stormed the gates that morning, proclaiming that Stannis’s ships were loaded fully with food and supplies, ready to take off that day or the next.

She laid her hand on his leg, all too aware of the degree of filth covering him. “You have today to rest, but tomorrow we must ride. Back home, to Winterfell. To Mother.”

Ned nodded then, his eyes closed. 

Sansa stood again, crossing over to the two maids who stood, trembling, in the corner. “Bathe my father, and see that he is dressed. He needs a great deal of help, so please be gentle with him.”

The two girls nodded and curtsied, and Sansa beckoned to Jon and Robb to leave the room.

Once outside, she sank down on the floor next to the door, resting her head on her knees. The blood had finally dried to a crusty, dark brown, and she felt exhausted. 

“You should go back to your men,” she told Robb. “They’ll be waiting for your commands. Get your arm looked at, as well. I’ll stay here with Father.” 

He clenched his jaw, but nodded jerkily. “Protect my sister,” he told Jon, clapping his hand on his shoulder, and then strode off down the hall without a backwards glance. 

Jon slid down to join her on the floor, and she instantly leaned her head to rest on his shoulder. 

“It’s over,” he whispered into her ear, his hand coming up to gently stroke her face. 

“Not yet,” she murmured back. “On the morrow, we kill the king.” 

His eyes met hers, hard grey stone to blue rivers, and he nodded ever so slightly. “You’re safe now.” 

She curled tight into his side, burrowing her face into his chest. He stank of the battlefield still, of sweat and dirt and blood, but she couldn’t care less. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,” she whispered. “Robb will behead them himself. It’s the Stark way.” 

“You don’t have to watch, if you don’t want to.” He lifted her chin then, thumb still stroking idly over her skin. 

“I want to.” She could be strong, for this. 

She pressed her lips to Jon’s jawline, soft but firm, and nuzzled back into his side.


	20. Chapter 20

Sansa took extra care to be beautiful that morning. 

She was standing witness to the execution of her husband and mother by law, and the more beautiful she was, the more likely the people were to forgive her. Kinslaying was a great crime. 

She wore a demure gown of grey silk with white trimmings and her hair flowing freely, crown braids on the sides of her head. She needed to look a Stark today more than ever. 

Father was still weak and tired, but he made a point to join Robb and Sansa in the Dragonpit, where they would take the heads of royalty. It hadn’t been used in a good amount of time, but it was the only structure that could fit half the city inside. 

It was barely light outside when the Dragonpit was filled, the sunlight breaking over the horizon in orange and gold streaks. _Gold, to usher out their House_.

Lord Stark sat behind Robb and to his right, his good silks hanging off of his frame. Robb looked every inch a king, the bronze and iron crown fashioned after their ancestors on his head, the direwolf of Stark emblazoned across his chest. 

When Cersei and Joffrey were dragged out, the crowd roared its approval. King Joffrey had done little to win their love, and the rumors whispered about Cersei and Robert’s death had never ceased. 

Robb stepped forward finally, raising his hand to soften the crowd. _He has the air of a true leader,_ Sansa thought as she watched him, legs spread solidly beneath him, the crown nestled among his curls like it belonged there. 

“Before you sits Cersei and Joffrey of House Lannister, former Queen and King of the Seven Kingdoms. They have wrongfully seized the Iron Throne with no claim to it. My father can attest that Joffrey is not King Robert’s son.” Robb paused then, glancing back at Ned, who nodded him on tiredly. “On the account of treason, I pronounce them guilty and sentence them to death.”

When Robb turned, Sansa caught on the shoulder, pulling him close. “Joffrey first.” 

He nodded at her, his eyes nearly emotionless, and gestured to Jon, standing near the back of the wooden stage. 

When Jon came forward carrying Ice, Sansa felt like crying. Instead, she steeled herself and gazed out above the crowd, willing her emotions down. 

Robb unsheathed the greatsword and beckoned the guards holding Joffrey forward. He snarled as he came close to the block, kicking his legs with abandon, but the guards forced him onto his knees. 

“Do you have any last words, Joffrey?” 

His face was nearly purple with rage. “I do, but I won’t tell them to you. Bring my whore of a wife over here.”

Robb turned warily, but Sansa was already striding forward, her gown swishing about her legs. Joffrey was still being held down by his guards, but she stood a few feet away anyway, just within his sight. 

“I know about your paramour,” he hissed at her, loud enough for Robb to hear. “I know about what you’ve done, and if you so much as think about coming out of your frozen wasteland again, the men who are loyal to me will slit your throat without a second glance. You were an adulterous whore of a wife, and if your brother is smart, he won’t marry you off again.” 

He looked back at Robb then, lips curled over his teeth. 

“Move out of the way, Sansa,” Robb growled, stepping forward to take his position. 

She stepped to the side, her toes numb, giving the crowd the view they craved. 

Ice glinted in the sunlight before it came down with a sigh. Sansa’s eyes fell down, down, to the hem of her skirt where droplets of blood had flown, staining the fabric. _That will take ages to clean,_ she thought idly. 

Joffrey’s head had rolled towards the front of the platform, but it didn’t even look real like that. It was just a lump. 

When Cersei was tugged forward, her cheek forced into the blood staining the block, she spat onto Robb’s boots. 

“Lady Cersei. I would hear your last words as well.” 

She glared up at him, defiant until her last moment, refusing to speak. 

“Very well.” Ice was still dripping with Joffrey’s lifeblood when he brought it down again, one clean slice through the autumn air. 

The silent sisters came forward then. No matter the crimes they had committed, Sansa had insisted that their bodies would be sent back to Tywin at the Rock, as a kindness from the now independent North. 

The crowds began to disperse, but Sansa refused to move. There was a pool of blood staining the last few inches of her dress, but it didn’t bother her.

When the Dragonpit was finally empty, she and Jon were still standing on the stage. 

He came forward to wrap his arm around her back, staring out at the stadium around them.

“Your ancestors raised their dragons here.” Sansa took a step off the platform, her boots tamping down on the hard sand. 

“They don’t feel like my ancestors.” Jon hopped down next to her, his head craning to see the top of the pit. “I don’t feel like a Targaryen. Only a bastard boy from Dorne, who was lucky enough to become a knight and protector to a queen.” 

“I am not a queen any longer. Only a princess, now.” She turned to him suddenly, taking in the hesitation on her face. “When shall we tell Robb?” 

“Perhaps never,” he chuckled wryly, taking her hands in his. “I am happy to be a Dornish bastard, lover to a Northern princess. I don’t wish for any of this.” 

“I did, once. I longed to go south, to prove my worth as a great lady, to marry a king and rule his castle. I was a naive little girl. I no longer dream of queenship. I dream of home.” 

“Home,” he echoed. “A sweet idea.”

“It’s more than an idea. My home is in the North, in Winterfell. And yours, if you’d like.”

He looked at her with hope in his eyes, his hands clenching hers tightly. “I’m not a Stark.”

“You are my sworn sword, and half Stark. You belong in the North with me.” She pulled him closer, the echoes of dragons all around them. “I don’t care who your father was.” 

“If word gets out, they may want me to take the Iron Throne.”

Sansa scoffed at that. “The Targaryens were deposed from the throne by Robert Baratheon. Stannis is his heir now. You have no obligation to sit that ugly throne.” 

He allowed himself a smile then, folding himself into her arms. “I’d like to come North with you. I’ve never seen Winterfell.” 

“Then you shall.” She pressed a kiss to his lips, and it felt like spring. “Come, walk with me.” 

She took him to the godswood one last time, and he knelt next to her, his head bowed as hers was. 

After a long moment, he raised his head, eyes full of tears. “The gods are truly watching us.” 

She nodded slowly. “Here, they can see. They don’t have many eyes in the South anymore.” 

“They can see us here,” he whispered as he bore her down to the ground, lips whispering over her neck and collarbone. 

He undressed her slowly, reverently, the laces slipping between his fingers as he uncovered her skin. Autumn was in the air, but the trees created a warm cocoon around them. 

She pushed his jerkin off his shoulders and tugged the undershirt over his head, leaving them both bare from the waist up. She pressed her skin to his eagerly, exalting in the warmth he shared with her. 

She was glad she had left her hair down when he paused to let the strands slide through his fingers. He surged forward to kiss her again, locked in the cradle of her hips as her hands pressed into his back. 

When he had finally worked her dress and shift all the way off, and she his jerkins, they were tangled together clad only in their smallclothes, leaves rustling above their heads. 

He nudged his nose into her collarbone, pressed a kiss to the divot in her neck. He breathed her name like a prayer, and she moaned in response. 

When they were finally naked before the gods, he paused with his nose pressed against hers. “Are you ready?”

She responded by kissing him softly, gently, pouring her heart into the motions, legs wrapped around his waist. “I’m ready.” 

He slipped into her gently, foreheads pressed together and fingers tangled next to her head. Once he was fully seated inside her, they let out a strangled sigh together, bodies intertwined tightly. 

“Jon,” she breathed, ankles locking behind his back, and he pulled back ever so slightly to look her in the eyes. “I love you.”

His smile was gentle, slow, as he brought their tangled hands closer so he could stroke her cheek. “Sweet, sweet girl. I love you.”

His motions were soft and sweet as he slid inside her again and again, and she stroked her fingers down his back as he began to speed up. When his face buried itself in her chest, she clutched his neck with one hand. 

“Sansa,” he groaned before stuttering inside her, straining his hips close before he relaxed, chest shaking as he rolled to her side, bringing her with him. 

“Stay with me,” she whispered, burrowing into his chest tightly.

“Always.”

When the breeze began to cool enough that Sansa felt goosebumps prickle up her arms and legs, she and Jon dressed to head back to the castle, arms locked together tightly, steps in tune with each other. 

“Lunch will be served soon. Would you join me?” 

“The high table is no place for a bastard.” She was glad to hear him tease.

“It is if a princess invites you there.” She stared him down coolly, one brow raised as if enticing him to challenge her, and he conceded easily. 

“If my princess commands.” 

“That she does.” 

She thought she saw Robb roll his eyes surreptitiously as she led Jon up to sit next to her, in a hall surrounded by Robb’s men. 

“Is there some problem, Robb?” She asked evenly from his side, watching him clench his jaw.

“You and Jon seem rather… close.”

“He is my protector,” she replied, taking a small bite of her pie. 

“Oh, just admit it, Sansa. He’s your lover.”

She set her knife down carefully, turning fully to face him. “Is there a problem with me taking a lover, Robb?”

“You were wed until this morning, and now you are a widow. Yet you do not dress in black, you allow his blood to stain your gown hours after his death!” 

His voice had risen enough to draw the attention of some of his men. “I am glad to be a widow. Joffrey can burn in all seven hells, for all I care. Jon treats me well, and kindly, and you should be happy to see me happy.” She pushed away from the table suddenly, angrily. “I find myself without hunger. I’ll see you on the morrow, when we leave for home.”

She stalked from the room, alone, wishing only that she could take off on her mare and be home instantly. _Home._ She missed Mother, and Bran, and Rickon. She missed Arya most of all, Arya who was still missing. 

She had promised herself that once the war was won, she would make Robb send search parties for her. They had always turned up empty-handed before, but maybe they would have more luck when it wasn’t a ravaged warzone. 

When she reached her chambers, she threw herself down on the bed, too angry to cry. She couldn’t reach the laces on her back no matter how much she squirmed, which only made her angrier, and she locked the door in a fit of frustration, determined not to be seen. 

When she finally crossed to her windows, hoping the breeze off the bay would calm her, there was a strange haze on the horizon. 

Eventually, she could pick out prows and sails, the fabric black with a fiery red heart emblazoned across them. _Stannis has come._


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying desperately to wrap up this story, but it's not complying. Happy reading!

Sansa was glad she hadn’t managed to untie the laces on her back, because it wouldn’t have been proper to greet Stannis in her shift. She flew down the steps as quickly as her feet would take her, eager to reach the docks. 

Her only hope was pinned on the fact that Stannis had given his brother a civil audience, despite the fact that he was openly in rebellion, so he must do the same for Robb. _He must._

When she finally made it to the docks, she was glad to see that although Stannis’s ships were clearly in sight, she was the only one waiting there. Robb would be there soon, she was sure, but she had the benefit of arriving first.

 _Mayhaps it’s truly war,_ she thought to herself, and in that case she was making a grave mistake waiting alone on the docks, but she kept faith. Stannis was a just man, and hopefully not overly cruel. 

When the largest of his ships anchored deep in the bay, Stannis Baratheon himself came ashore in a rowboat with his red woman and close to ten men surrounding him. Sansa wiped her hands on her skirt and strode to the end of the pier to wait. 

The red woman was the first one out, and she accepted Sansa’s hand to steady herself as she swept her skirts out of the boat. 

“Lady Sansa,” she nodded, and Sansa bowed her head gently. 

“I’m afraid I never caught your name, Lady…?”

“I’m not a lady, but you may call me Melisandre.” 

“Melisandre. Welcome to the capital.” 

Stannis clambered out of the boat with no help, his beard shot with grey, followed closely by a trim man who looked quite common in comparison. 

“King Stannis. We are quite happy to welcome you to King’s Landing.” Sansa swept into a curtsey then, giving him his due.

“Who is this we? I see only you.” The docks were lively at this point in the evening, but Sansa was still alone. 

“It appears my brother, King Robb, did not realize you were coming. I will send for an honor guard to escort you to him.” 

“No need, girl. My men can show me up to the castle just as well. I know the way.”

“Might I accompany you, then?” Melisandre hadn’t taken her curious red eyes off of Sansa the entire time, and Sansa’s skin itched to be away. 

“If you insist.” Stannis took off then without another word, and Sansa repressed a sigh as she followed him. 

“You’ll find the capital to be in a sorry state, your grace. My brother the king had to sack the city before Cersei would stand down. I apologize for how it must seem.”

“All cities under siege look much the same. It’s not a surprise, girl.” 

Sansa bit her tongue in anger. _Girl._ She was a grown woman and a former queen, and this man would only address her as _girl_.

They walked for a long while in silence before Sansa finally spoke again. “We plan to take our armies and leave in the morning for the North. Robb is eager to take his men home after such a war.”

“I will discuss strategies with Lord Eddard or his heir. You need not waste your breath.” They were finally to the Red Keep, and Stannis disappeared inside without another word. Sansa was grinding her teeth so severely, she was afraid all that would be left was a few sorry nubs. 

Melisandre caught her by the arm before Sansa could follow him in, her eyes searching Sansa’s closely. “Be careful. I have seen you in my visions before, taming a lion thrice your size, running with a pack of direwolves in the snow. This morning I saw you again, running through a desert that has no end, and on your dying breath, you pluck a piece of gold from the earth.”

Sansa yanked her arm from Melisandre’s grip then, smiling through the chill that suddenly enveloped her body. “Do not worry. I have no plans to visit Dorne anytime soon, so the desert may not capture me.”

“I have seen your sworn sword as well, shackled to the ground with iron chains.” 

Sansa froze then. _She can’t know._

She plastered a smile on her face, but not before Melisandre noticed the chill run through her body. “Jon is only a bastard, former protector to a queen. No one has any reason to chain him.” She turned then and pushed the doors open herself, walking quickly so that she was only a few paces behind Stannis. 

Robb was standing in front of the Iron Throne, his men lining the sides of the room, Grey Wind by his side. Sansa hadn’t seen a direwolf since she left Winterfell, and the sheer size of Grey Wind terrified her. 

It was finally dusk outside, and the light flowed in through the upper windows, orange and red on the black throne.

As Stannis came to a halt, Robb bowed mindfully. “King Stannis. The Iron Throne is yours.” 

“If the throne is mine, then why must I go through you to get to it?” 

Stannis seemed utterly emotionless, and Sansa walked past him then to join her brother, glaring at him while Stannis couldn’t see. 

“We only require your hospitality for another day, your grace, until we can send our men home.” She gestured around her, the hall full to bursting.

“I was speaking to your brother,” he ground out, irritation plain on his face. 

“My sister has the right of it, your grace. We came for our father, and now we will leave.” 

“Your father is a good man, and I appreciate his loyalty. It’s my understanding that you are not loyal to me.” Melisandre was standing behind him now, her hood finally off to reveal hair as red as her eyes, braided over her shoulder. 

“You are not my king, your grace, but I recognize your authority here in your kingdom. We only ask for your leave to go home.”

“The Seven Kingdoms are mine by rights. I have not given the North independence.” 

Sansa was practically holding her breath as Robb began to stride forward, slowly and purposefully. “The North was not given independence by anyone. The North is taking its independence by itself. We do not need your permission, your grace.” 

His men were beginning to murmur, a quiet rush throughout the hall as tensions mounted.

“You are choosing war.” 

“Then it will be war, your grace. You could save many lives if you only agree to let myself, my family, and my men leave in peace. We only wish to go home.” 

Sansa wound her fingers into Grey Wind’s fur, feeling more than hearing him start to growl softly.

“Kneel, and save your people.”

“I will not kneel.” Robb stood strong, only a foot from Stannis, his face as hard as iron. Grey Wind trotted forward then, joining Robb, and Sansa was surprised to see the blood drain out of Stannis’s face, though his expression didn’t change. 

“Our people belong to the North, and they will serve no king but a Stark.” He laid a hand on Grey Wind’s back almost idly, and the wolf’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “We have given you the capital and the rest of your kingdoms, as is your due. You may either allow us to leave in the morning, or allow Grey Wind to acquaint himself more closely.” 

At that, Robb pushed past Stannis, Grey Wind at his heels, and strolled out of the throne room, as relaxed as if he were in his own home. Once the wolf was gone, Stannis turned his gaze back to Sansa. 

“I apologize for my brother’s harshness, Your Grace, but he speaks the truth. The North will not kneel for you.” She lifted her chin, picking up her skirts as she walked closer. “I have been a lady, a queen, and am now a princess of the north. We will leave you your southron capital, but the North belongs to us alone. Luckily for you, we’ve already cleared out your enemies.” 

He noticed the bloodstains adorning the hem of her skirt then, and blanched slightly. “If you do not kneel, you are my enemy.” 

“We are not. You may rule in peace, without any fear of our armies, which so easily dealt with your enemies. I hear my brother’s wolf took down at least three dozen horses on his own, and half again as many men.

“I’m sure we’ll be in touch soon. Winter is coming, your grace, and peace must come with it.” Sansa stalked out of the room, leaving that ugly throne to its rightful possessor. Men’s eyes followed hers the entire way, her head thrown high before them.

She found Robb in the practice yard, the moon now shining down around him, beating a dummy to shreds with his sword. 

“You don’t need to antagonize people who could be your allies,” she called ahead, and he turned to face her, sweat pouring down his forehead. 

“Stannis has been threatening me since the moment he arrived.” Robb sheathed his sword harshly, scraping the scabbard too roughly in his anger. 

“Stannis sees you as a threat, of course he’s been threatening you.” Sansa rolled her eyes. 

“As right he should. My army is still twenty thousand strong. He has not even half that number.”

“Numbers don’t always win a war, and especially not this war. Robb, you know that Tywin will want revenge for Cersei and Joffrey, even though we’ve spared Myrcella and Tommen. You can’t be delusional enough to think he won’t march his armies right into the Riverlands.”

He paused then, his hand still on the pommel of his sword. “I had forgotten about Tywin.”

“Robb, you are an _absolute idiot_.” It was Robb she stalked away from then, leaving him with his sword and his wolf. 

She fumed all the way into the castle and to her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her with a groan and leaning her forehead against it. The day had been ridiculously long, and they were to be up at dawn again to leave on the morrow. 

When she finally turned around, she screamed to see Jon sitting on her bed, acting as though nothing was amiss. 

“You scared me!” she admonished, smacking him on the arm where he sat. 

“Where have you been? You worried me, leaving like that during supper, and then afterwards you were gone.” There was a small crease in his forehead from where his brow had furrowed, and she smoothed it over with a kiss.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that Stannis has arrived. My brother has already botched a conversation with him.” She pulled her braid over her shoulder so that she could detangle it, needing something to occupy her hands. “You’d think he could show just a little deference to another king, one who he knows we’re on thin ice with, but he had to show off with that damned wolf of his.” 

She threw the ribbon that had tied off her hair in a huff, and almost instantly Jon’s hands were on her shoulders, smoothing and rubbing them gently. “Is it war, then?”

“Hopefully not. Stannis hasn’t said we can’t leave in the morning, so I assume that we can and will.” She sighed then, leaning back into his hands. “That feels wonderful.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” His lips joined his hands on the sides of her neck, and she giggled as his beard tickled her. “Are you excited to go home?”

“More than you could know.” Her hair had spilled over his hands and she pulled it carefully aside so that he wouldn’t tug it on accident. “I miss Mother greatly, and my brothers as well. I only hope they miss me too.”

“I’m sure your mother will be ecstatic to see you,” he whispered, lips right next to her ear, and she shivered slightly. “Your brother knows about us, though. How will we navigate that, with the rest of your family?”

“I can’t quite concentrate on my brother with you doing that,” she murmured, giggling as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. His hands had drifted to the laces of her dress and he was tugging them gently, loosening it just enough that the bodice began to droop towards her waist.

Jon tugged her to her feet then, and his hands covered hers as she shimmied her dress down. “I think we should tell them about us.” 

Sansa froze then, her eyes darting up to meet his, a frightened doe in crosshairs. “Why would we do that?”

“You don’t need to be a widow for the rest of your life. You deserve happiness, Sansa.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, clad only in her thin shift, but she refused to meet his eyes. 

“I am a princess of the north. It’s my duty to marry for my family, if any man will have me.” Her eyelashes dusted her cheeks gently, and Jon wanted nothing more than to kiss her eyelids. 

“I would have you.” 

“I’m a princess, Jon. My brother won’t allow me to marry some bastard boy.” She wrenched away from his hands, and he saw a tear fall before she turned away from him. “I’ll be wed to shore up alliances, to someone who won’t mind trading my maidenhead for the opportunity to be close to the royal family.” 

She let her tears flow freely once her back was turned, crossing over to her window to stare out at Stannis’s ships. An entire fleet of them, and all the men Stannis could muster, and yet it was not Stannis she was afraid of. 

When she felt his warmth at her back, she did not shy away. “I won’t leave you.” 

“You must, one day. When I am wedded and bedded again, to some lord my brother wants to curry favor from.” 

His fingers ran through her hair, wavy from her braid, trailing all the way down her back. “I’ll be with you then as well. Your sworn sword is to go wherever you go.”

“Oh, Jon.” Her voice broke with a sob, and he wrapped his arms around her as she collapsed against him. “You know we cannot be.”

“We already are.” He pressed the softest of kisses to her forehead, gentle as rain, and her hands dug into his collar desperately.

“Would that we could always be.” 

They stayed like that, watching the stars rise over the bay, wrapped in each other’s arms, until the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully we'll see more from Margaery next chapter! Hope you enjoyed!


	22. Chapter 22

When the sun finally rose, Sansa clutched Jon ever tighter.

“Good morning, princess,” he mumbled into her neck, and she pressed her lips to his forehead. 

“Our last morning in the capital. Will you miss it?”

“I’ll miss this.” His lips tangled with hers as he combed through her hair with his fingers, helping her to shift more fully over his lap.

There were barely any layers between them, and it was only a small moment later when he had rucked her shift up to her waist, trailing his fingers over the warm skin underneath. Sansa moaned against his lips needily, rocking over his hips in a serpentine motion, and he gripped her waist fervently in response. 

Her hands finally found the laces of his breeches and her hips lifted to give her better access, and he was practically shaking underneath her. She barely got them down to his thighs before he was pulling her back down to hover over his cock.

When she reached between them to stroke him from base to tip, stars exploded behind his eyelids. Sansa pressed gentle kisses to his cheekbones and jawline as she fitted him to her entrance, both of them moaning in unison as she sunk down barely an inch onto him. 

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he mumbled, nuzzling into her eagerly as she lowered herself down so, so slowly. His hands traced a path from her hipbones to her waist before settling over her ass, helping to guide her up and down. 

“You feel so good like this,” he gasped as she sped her pace, bracing herself on his shoulders as she tossed her head back. Jon could feel her hair sweeping over the bare few inches of his thighs, her ass making a beautiful slapping sound as she moved. 

When he shifted one hand to her clit, she mewled needily, her fingernails digging deep claws into the skin of his shoulders. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” he urged her as she keened, her walls spasming around his as he swept his thumb over her clit gently, helping her down easily from her orgasm before she melted bonelessly against him, her breath fanning across his neck.

“Darling girl, do you mind if I…?” he thrust up into her again, still rock hard inside her, and she sighed against him, rubbing her hips against his with the smallest wiggle. 

“I don’t mind,” she whispered, so quietly he could barely hear her, and so he wrapped both arms around her waist and thrust into her, gently but as quickly as he could, stroking her hair where it fell over his hands. 

It was only a moment later that his pace quickened and then stuttered to a stop, spending inside of her with a drawn-out groan, lips fixed against the skin over her collarbone. 

The early morning sunlight painted her skin in pinks and golds, creating deep shadows in the valleys of skin between the spurs of her spine. Beautiful, and fragile, and all his to protect. 

He traced the bones sweetly, gently, relishing the feeling of her smooth skin under his fingers. Her shift kept threatening to fall back down but he swept it up with every pass of his hands, keeping the contact between their skin.

When she finally sat back up, stretching her arms over her head, he felt the bones in her back crack quietly.

“Much better,” she moaned, tossing her head back and forth, and he chuckled underneath her.

“Come now, love, let’s get dressed.” 

She pouted prettily at him, but whipped her shift over her head all the same, grinning widely as his attention immediately fell to her breasts. 

“You are an evil little minx,” he muttered, weighing them in his hands, and she laughed loudly. 

“I needed a clean shift.” She hopped off his lap them, shimmying her hips as he groaned audibly. 

She was almost completely dressed before he had even gotten up, but he enjoyed watching her too much to impede his view. 

“Do my laces?” She pulled her hair over her shoulder and tossed him a saucy grin, and he simply had to accede to his request. 

“I thought you had a maid for this,” he teased her gently as he pulled them tight. 

“I don’t need a maid when you’re so good at this.” He tied them off near her waist, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck when he was done. 

“I need to make sure my dear brother doesn’t anger Stannis any more before we can leave.” Sansa turned in his arms, smirking a little at his tousled jerkin, breeches hanging off his hips. “Would you accompany me there?”

“Might I dress first, or do you want me to show your dear brother what we’ve been up to this morning?” 

She pushed him halfheartedly, but there was a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Dress, you fool. I guess I’ll have to wait for you.” She collapsed into the chair they just vacated with an easy grace, watching him yank off his clothes as quickly as he could, replacing them with a set that he had stuffed into her trunk over the last few days. 

He looked rumpled, but properly dressed, and she laced her arm through his before they exited her chambers. 

As they wound their way through the corridors, Sansa felt the strangest feeling of sadness at the thought of leaving. The Red Keep was not their home, but it was where she had fallen in love. 

Their path took them near the small council chambers, and Sansa could hear muffled shouting through the door. 

“Hold on a moment,” she hissed when Jon tried to pull her forward, tiptoeing to the door to press her ear to it. She recognized Robb’s voice, quieter now, and then Stannis’s angry baritone before she pushed the door open and strode in. 

“Dear brother. King Stannis. Am I interrupting?” The two were standing on opposite sides of the table, Robb with his hands slammed down, both with chests heaving. 

“Stannis has decided that he doesn’t _care_ if Lord Tywin burns the Riverlands if I do not _bend the knee_.” 

“I’m sure that’s not what he said.” She turned a becoming smile to Stannis, coming to the middle of the table. “King Stannis, the Riverlands have declared for my brother but they are innocent when it comes to Lord Tywin’s anger. An alliance would be a positive turn for both of our kingdoms.”

“It is all my kingdom, and none belongs to your brother, Lady Sansa.” She could sense where her brother had lost Stannis, and was glad that this time he had not brought his wolf. 

“As the king, you should care for your people. Is it not a crime that Lord Tywin commits against the smallfolk, burning and pillaging?”

“It is a crime that you seek to rip away half of my kingdom.”

“We will beat Lord Tywin without you, and then we will come for you,” Robb said, so red with anger he looked a tomato. 

“We will do no such thing,” she fumed before whipping her head around to find Jon, still standing near the door. “Ser Jon, please be so kind as to escort King Robb from the room. Make sure our ships are ready to embark as soon as possible.” 

Jon had to practically drag Robb from the room, who glared at her on the way out. She would hear his anger later, she was sure. 

“King Stannis, my brother can be quite impulsive, and for that I apologize. However, all we want is peace for our people.” She smiled gently, but Stannis only looked more uncomfortable for it. 

“We need to be allies in this, your grace. Lord Tywin will demand recompense for the deaths of his daughter and grandson. You have a young daughter, do you not?” 

“I do. Lady Shireen.”

“How old is she now, your grace? Three and ten?” 

“Four and ten,” he corrected, but there was a wary glint in his eye. 

“She’s at the prime age for a betrothal. It might please Lord Tywin if young Tommen was betrothed to her. It would put his line back into the line of succession, as she is your only heir.” 

Stannis ground his teeth, but she could see that he was considering it. “I doubt that alone would please Lord Tywin.” 

“Tommen will hold Dragonstone until he is king, and then his sons will hold it afterward. It’s a lifelong honor for him.” 

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded, brow furrowed. “What are you getting out of this?” 

“Lord Tywin is a reasonable man. If the outcome is favorable enough, he will likely stand down.” She shrugged, hoping her nervousness wouldn’t show through the nonchalance. “I promised Queen Cersei that her children would be well treated. I am sure that your kindness to Tommen will be unfailing.” 

“And there is your advantage. You are not quite so naive as you look, Lady Sansa.” 

“Thank you,” she murmured, unsure if it was meant as a compliment. 

“I still cannot allow your brother to be king in my kingdom.” 

“We do not wish to war with you, King Stannis. It would cause unnecessary bloodshed. Give my brother the North. You may keep the Riverlands and the Vale of Arryn. We could be allies.” 

“You are persistent.” When she didn’t respond, he huffed out a breath. “Take the North, then. My maester will be in touch. Boundary lines must be drawn, trade agreements arranged.”

“It is a good deal of work.” An idea came to her then, like lightning. “It would be beneficial to have an emissary in your court, would it not?

“What are you proposing, Lady Sansa?” 

“As a gesture of my brother’s goodwill, I will stay in your capital,” she responded, head held high. “Ser Jon will stay and protect me, and we will act in an official capacity as the North’s ambassador.”

“You’re offering yourself as a hostage.” He almost smiled, then, but not quite. 

“An ambassador,” she insisted. 

“It’s settled, then.” When she held her hand out to shake, he did so gingerly. 

“I would like to go home first, to the North. I miss my family. I swear to you that I will be back within two moon’s turns to begin my work here.” 

“Go, see your mother. If you aren’t back by then, I’ll know you have chosen war instead of peace.” 

“As is your right. Let me go inform my brother of our accomplishments.” Sansa curtsied as she exited, shutting the door behind her as she went. 

She found Robb on the docks with Jon, watching silently as boats were loaded with men and all the trappings they had brought with them on the journey south. 

“Tell me you have good news,” he demanded when she walked up. 

“The North is yours,” she said, and Robb broke into a generous grin. “Not the Riverlands, though, and not the Vale. Only the North.” His smile slid off like grease from a pan.

“You’ve won me one kingdom and lost me another.” 

“I’ve stopped Stannis from lopping your head off, is what I’ve done,” she snapped. “I am to stay here, as the ambassador for the North. It’s a good compromise.”

“You don’t want to come home?” He looked almost lost then, his eyes searching hers.

“I am coming home.” She touched his arm gingerly. “I have two moon’s turns to come home, visit with Mother and the boys, and come back. Jon stays with me as my protector.”

“You can’t go anywhere without your lover, can you?” Robb spat at her, his face a twisted mask of hurt. 

Sansa grabbed his arm then and yanked him off the docks, away from Jon and the curious stares of the oarsmen. “What is your problem with Jon?”

“You spend every moment of your time with him!” Robb seethed. “You hardly pay a whit of attention to Father or I, and Arya is still missing, and yet every free second you get you are hanging off his arm.”

“He’s sworn to protect me, Robb, he’s going to be near me.” She refrained from rolling her eyes, but couldn’t help from clenching her fists. “I apologize that you’re bitter that you haven’t found a queen, but that’s not my fault!” 

“Bitter?” His eyes blew wide, and she could see his arms shaking slightly. “I am not bitter! There are plenty of women that want to be my wife!” 

“Then marry, and stop being so angry with me for finding love before you do,” she spat. She stomped away then, too frustrated with him to utter one more word. 

She spent the better part of the next hour pacing the courtyard angrily, Jon watching her from a safe distance away while she tried to stomp the anger out through her feet. 

It was on her fortieth round of the yard that one of the younger maesters employed by the Red Keep came up to her anxiously, a scroll clutched in his hand. 

“Lady Sansa,” he squeaked, and she stopped moving suddenly, causing him to jump.

“Can I help you?” 

“A letter for you, from Highgarden,” he stuttered out before backing away. 

_Margaery, finally._ She broke the seal eagerly before skimming its contents. 

Jon appeared over her shoulder as she crumpled the letter in her fist. “From the Tyrells?”

“From Margaery. She claims that I was _quite uncourteous_ when I left Storm’s End, and that she was forced by honor to return Myrcella to her family after I left. When she heard that we would be sieging the castle, she fled to Highgarden because she was “afraid for their wellbeing”.” She scoffed at that, wishing she could throw the letter right into Margaery’s smirking face. “She asks for my forgiveness, and if my brother _the king_ will have the time to engage them on a friendly visit between allies.”

“She wants to wed again,” Jon realized out loud, half a moment too late. 

“She’ll marry my brother over my dead body. Robb may irritate me to no end, but that little snake won’t be queen again under my watch. However…” Her anger had dissipated, fading to contemplation instead. “Come with me to the rookery.” 

Half an hour later, she had penned the kindest letter she could muster, encouraging Margaery to come to Winterfell in good faith to meet the king, and to bring Myrcella so that Sansa could oversee an advantageous marriage for her. 

“In all honestly, it will be as advantageous of a marriage as Lord Tywin could muster.” She grinned like the cat that ate the canary. 

“You’re going to bait and switch Margaery like that? You wicked girl.” Jon pulled her close as she shooed the raven out the window. 

“She deserves it anyway. Myrcella is a sweet girl, and will make a generous queen. Now, let’s go tell my brother the good news.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Myrcella is a bastard.” Robb stood at the prow of their ships, watching the salt waves break in front of them. They had been afloat for the better part of the day, yet it was only the first of many that would bring them home.

“She is,” Sansa allowed, “but Lord Tywin is a powerful man, and cunning at that. He knows the political advantages to have a king consort on one throne and a queen consort on another.”

“You might think that gives him too much power.” The wind ruffled his hair gently, making him look younger than he was.

“He will have no true power in the North. I have a mind to ask Stannis to appoint him to his small council, to assure Tywin that he still has a place in the governance of the realm.”

“And if he’s on Stannis’s council, he can’t be on mine.”

“Exactly.”

Robb broke into a small grin, and Sansa’s pride rose in her chest. The deck was quiet save for the splashing of the sea around them, and they were far enough away from the oarsmen to speak plainly. 

“I have something important to tell you,” she began, hesitantly, and Robb nodded absently, undoubtedly still thinking of his future bride. 

“Jon is… not only my sworn sword.” She was wringing her hands quietly, beneath the handrails so he couldn’t see, and Robb almost laughed at that. 

“We’ve discussed this many times, Sansa.”

“No, it’s not that. Father told me, before I left the capital for Storm’s End…” She trailed off, noticing his vacant stare. “You’re not listening to me.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I was distracted.” He almost looked abashed, but faced her head on now. 

She took a deep breath, and decided to rip off the bandage. “Jon is our cousin.” 

Robb didn’t look shocked, or surprised, only slightly confused. “How is he our cousin? Uncle Brandon’s?”

“No, it’s a long story, really, but he’s Aunt Lyanna’s son.” 

He still looked baffled, but Sansa could see him started to work through it. “Father told me about Aunt Lyanna, once. He rode south for her, after she ran off with Rhaegar.” 

“Father found her, in Dorne.” Her hands gripped the rail now, needing the wood for strength. “He found her son as well, and brought him to Dorne.”

After that, it was like dawn broke through on Robb’s face. “I know it’s a lot to think of,” Sansa said soothingly, “but Jon is our family.”

“Jon is my cousin,” he breathed, shaking his head. “Why wouldn’t Father ever tell us?”

“Because of his father. Robert hated the Targaryens, you know that, and Father was scared…” she trailed off, unsure of what to say. Father hadn’t explained it all that well to her either. 

“I think I should talk to Father instead.” Robb let out a long breath before turning to her suddenly and opening his arms for a hug.

She hadn’t hugged him in months, since she had left Winterfell, and so she stepped gingerly into his arms, hugging him tightly. 

“I did miss you, you know.” He pulled apart, holding her by her shoulders. “When you left for the south, I missed you.”

“I missed you as well, although you have a funny way of showing it.” 

Robb threw her a wry grin. “Being a king is harder than I could have ever anticipated.”

“You can ask for help, you know. I was a queen once.” 

He almost looked a child then, the way he ducked his head. “Do you think you could teach Myrcella how to be a queen as well?” 

She laughed gently. “Myrcella will barely need instruction. She was a wonderful friend to me, and will make an excellent queen for you. I’m actually quite excited for you to meet her.”

“I am, as well.” A true smile spread across his face, and he squeezed her shoulders before dropping his hands. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned back to the salt spray of the sea, letting the breeze blow some wayward curls from her face. She was going home, and that was all that mattered. 

***

She spent the remainder of the trip dicing with Father and Robb, playing cyvasse with Jon, and pining away at the prow of the ship as she waited for White Harbor to materialize in the distance. Robb had warmed up greatly to Jon after their discussion, and the two were becoming fast friends. 

They found that they enjoyed sparring together even more than gambling at dice, and so every afternoon they practiced their swordplay. They were fairly evenly matched, but Jon was quicker, and so won more often, although Robb’s brute strength had its fair share of glory as well.

They looked like two sides of the same coin next to each other, and Sansa couldn’t help but think of what close friends they could have been if Father had brought their cousin home as a child instead of leaving him in Dorne. She hoped he would fit in as well with the rest of her siblings as he now did with Robb.

Sansa had overheard their conversation one night when she went to the cabin they shared next to hers to ask Jon to play her in cyvasse. She had paused outside the door when she heard them laughing, not wanting to interrupt whatever bonding moments they could have together. 

_I am truly happy that we’re family,_ Robb had said, somewhat haltingly, and there was a long pause before she heard Jon respond, _As am I._ It was short, but overwhelmingly sweet for the two of them, and she had tiptoed away quietly, deciding that cyvasse could wait until the next day. 

She and Jon had had almost no privacy during that week. Everywhere they turned, there was some bannerman or Robb or Father or an oarsman to bump into, and they’d done little more than exchange short grins or hold a snippet of conversation over the cyvasse table before being interrupted. Sansa missed the relative openness of the capital, where they could wander the gardens unimpeded save for the buzzing of the bees or the chirping of the small birds she loved so much. 

Sansa was tired of traveling most of all. She felt like she had done nothing but ride from city to city, with the briefest of stops in between before she took off again. In the past few months, she had seen more of the Seven Kingdoms than she had in her entire life before. She was eager to stay in Winterfell for a long, blessed month before beginning the trek back down to King’s Landing to take up her duties.

When she finally stepped ashore at White Harbor after a week on the open sea, she was eager for a bath that didn’t involve salt water and a meal of something other than fish. They would only stay one night in the port city before striking out for Winterfell, but Sansa was determined to make the most of it.

They were staying in Lord Manderly’s castle, as befit a king’s party in his kingdom, and Sansa was grateful for the two maids that were waiting outside the chambers she was given for the night. It was only a scant half hour later that she was fully undressed and soaking in a scalding hot tub, suppressing a moan as one of the girls brushed through her hair as gently as she could, navigating the coarse tangles from a week of sea spray and gusty winds. 

Once her hair was untangled and hanging loosely behind the tub, she thanked her maids profusely and sent them out of the room so that she could bathe in peace. The solitude was surprisingly calming after the clamor of the boat, and she sighed happily as she soaked.

The water was tepid and cool when she finally called her maids back in to help her dress. She wore a grey and white silk dress as befit a princess of the North, and the older of the girls gave her a delicate braid around the crown of her head that trailed into a thicker braid down her back, her talented fingers picking it out in no time while the other girl tightened the laces on her corset and dress. 

She was perfectly powdered by the time Jon arrived to escort her to the feast, and she noticed the way his eyes lingered on her bust and waist, accentuated perfectly with her hair pulled back. She waited until they were out of earshot of the maids before she turned to him, faux shock plastered across her face.

“I thought you were a gentleman, ser, but I swear to the Seven I just saw you staring at my chest.” She stared him down challengingly, one eyebrow cocked, and he raised his hands in mock defeat. 

“I was only admiring the fine needlework on your collar, my lady, nothing more.” He was unabashed, grinning at her, and she felt half a girl again, like she had when they first met. 

She was to be presented at the feast in a spectacle of grandeur, and so she and Jon fell into place behind her father and in front of Robb, as members of the royal family. It felt horrendously like another feast, where she had entered on the arm of the man she thought she would love for the rest of her life, and she focused hard on Jon’s profile to shake the deja vu. 

When it was finally their turn to enter, she did so with delicate steps and a pretty smile, remembering how to conduct herself as a princess. Jon’s arm was there to steady her, yet her eyes flicked around the room uneasily, feeling the press of too many pairs of eyes on her. 

They were halfway through the feast before fat Lord Manderly stood up, raising his hands to silence the hall. 

“King Robb, we are so pleased to have you and your family here in our home.” His smile was wide and greasy, but kind. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Robb responded, setting down his dagger. “We are always grateful for a chance to feast with our loyal men.”

“Loyal men we are!” the great lord boomed, and some of the tables chuckled at his emphaticness. “There is no family more loyal to you, your grace, and that is why I have a proposal to offer you.”

A great hush fell over the hall, and a queasy feeling rose in Sansa’s stomach. 

“By all means, offer your proposal.” Robb was smiling kindly yet nervously, and Sansa could see his fists clenched under the table. 

“Princess Sansa is as beautiful as they come, isn’t she?” The men in the hall cheered, and the nauseous feeling intensified. 

“My sister is quite lovely, yes, thank you for noticing,” Robb clipped out, and his eyes met hers for the first time all night. 

“My son Wendel is yet unwed. A boisterous man, it is true, but the princess could use a little laughter in her life. As your loyal men, let us join our houses together!”

Wendel stood then, all twenty-two stone of him, and her breath caught in her chest. She had never seen a man so opposite to Jon - bald yet mustachioed, with a round face and body to match. She hadn’t even considered that she could be wed so _soon_.

Sansa could see Robb’s teeth grind, and the snakes in her stomach began to calm. “Lord Wyman, your offer is quite generous.” 

“Generous, indeed,” Jon muttered in her ear, and her mood lightened enough for her to break a smile. 

“However, we are not quite ready for my sister to begin fielding marriage proposals yet,” Robb hedged, and the room broke out in curious mutters. 

“I’ve never heard of a king who didn’t want to rid himself of a sister,” Lord Wyman joked, and it was enough to send the room into giggles rather than titters. 

“Thank you for your offer, truly. We will consider it in due time, my lord.” 

Sansa sent the lord a smile, accompanied with a half-hearted shrug, which seemed to appease him slightly. 

“We’ll be waiting to hear from you, Princess,” he boomed jovially, but thankfully dropped the subject.

“The first of many such proposals, I’m sure,” Jon whispered in her ear. “I told you, any man would be a fool to turn you down.” 

“Hush.” She prodded at him with her dagger, a blush rising on her chest. “You know I don’t want just any man.” 

His hand was resting on her thigh, just above the knee, and he gave it a quick squeeze, just to make her jump. “I know exactly which man you want.”

His voice was low and husky, and she shivered just a little at the timbre of it. “Good Lord Wendel, of course,” she murmured, unwilling to give in just yet. 

He squeezed her thigh tighter before muttering in her ear, “Send your maids away after dinner, and keep your fire lit.”

She rubbed her legs together anxiously before nodding, the flush rising to her cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! We all know how we're starting next chapter. ;)
> 
> Let me what you think!


	24. Chapter 24

The room she had been given was sparsely furnished, but there was at least an armchair next to her fireplace that she curled up in, waiting for Jon to call upon her. She had stoked the flames until they were crackling brightly, certain to last at least several hours, but she had been sitting in wait of Jon for an hour at least, too nervous to focus on any sort of needlework.

Her two maids had helped to rid her of her dress and corset before she sent them away for the night and she was glad for it now, with the fire burning so warmly next to her. The room was dark otherwise, and she was hoping that Jon would call on her soon, recognizing the warmth and the dark lulling her into a deep sense of complacency. 

It was some many minutes later that she heard the faintest of knocks on her door. Sansa hardly had time to turn her head before it clicked open and shut as quietly as possible, and suddenly her room was full.

Jon had dressed for the feast in the same smooth black armor he wore when they met for the first time, and she was struck once again by how handsome he looked, how the firelight played off the shiny metal and made him look like he was kissed by fire. 

“You kept me waiting a long time,” she chided quietly, unfolding her limbs to stand across from him. 

“My deepest apologies… Princess.” He gave her the quickest of grins before he crossed the remaining few feet to gather her in his arms, nuzzling into her neck. Sansa swore she heard him release a tiny moan into her skin before he pulled back to look at her, eyes open and honest.

“I missed touching you when we were on that thrice-damned ship.”

“You can make up for it now.”

Their kiss was long and bruising, the kind that makes up for all the lost days. When his cold armor pressed against her nearly-bare skin, she shuddered and then quickly worked to pull it off, their hands occasionally brushing each others as they rid him of his breastplate, and Sansa broke their kiss to gently set it to the side.   
When he looked at her curiously, she said “I rather like this armor. I wouldn’t want it to be damaged in your fit of passion.” 

“There will be no fits tonight.” He trailed his fingers across her crown braid, down to the tip of the longer one near her chest before resting his fingers there. His palm was larger than she expected, covering the thin fabric over her breast with his fingers spiderwebbing out halfway to her collarbone. 

In the firelight, her white shift was coated in a dance of orange and red, darkening her hair with its flickers, and his hand tensed slightly around her flesh as he stared at her, enraptured. 

“You are a vision,” he finally said, flicking his eyes up to meet hers to find her pupils blown wide, full lips slightly parted as he gently kneaded her breast, smoothing his thumb over her nipple to find it hard and pebbled under his touch. 

She whined a moment when he took his hand away, but quieted quickly as he pulled his undershirt out of his breeches to toss it next to his breastplate, less gently than she had. When he noticed her hand reach up, wavering slightly, he covered it with his own and let her stroke her way down his chest, dipping her fingers into the crevices between the muscles there. 

When she finally leaned forward and pressed her lips to his collar, he groaned audibly, letting her work her way over his chest and abs as he picked at her hair. She had tied it off with a dove grey ribbon, which he tucked into a pocket while she wasn’t looking, and then quickly detangled the long braid with his hands, leaving her face unobscured while letting the fire play in the copper strands. 

When her light kisses and the dart of her tongue into the ridge of muscles near the hem of his breeches proved to be too exciting, he lifted her up gently to press a kiss to her forehead before taking her hand and leading her to the tall bed.

“It occurs to me that we’ve never done this in a bed before.” Her smile was light and teasing, hair spilling over her shoulders like a vision of a goddess. Jon swore that if he had kept to the Old Gods, she was the religion manifested on earth, deep reds and white whirled together in one. 

“I suppose there’s a first time for everything,” he replied huskily, tracing a line from her knee to her thigh as she leaned against the side of the bed, refusing to give ground. 

“May I?” At her nod, he worked the shift up over her head, letting her tug it off her arms before she finally sat down on the bed, leaning back against her hands to give him a good look. 

“See something you like?”

“More than you could ever imagine.” He dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes focused on the thatch of hair between her legs, dark as auburn with the wetness of her arousal. 

Sansa pushed herself up on her hands to see him better, kneeling in front of her and looking at her womanhood like a man at the sept. “What are you up to down there?” 

In response, he nudged her thighs open a little farther with his nose before kissing his way up to her hipbone and back down, nuzzling into the curls there. She sighed as she felt his tongue trace up her slit, followed quickly by his fingers parting her there. 

His eyes darted back up to meet hers again, and she swore they looked black as night. 

“Let me taste you?”

She sucked in a needy breath before nodding, and he wasted no time before burying his face in her and lapping at her cunt like a man dying of thirst. 

He was gentle yet forceful, sliding his tongue up and down her lips before circling at the nub near the top, making her wriggle with pleasure before diverting his attention down to her opening again. After making her keen for him, he finally raised the hand that had been tracing patterns on her knee to her cunt, pressing a finger inside her gently while she cried out. 

With his hand pumping slowly inside her, he wasted no time in giving his full attention to her nub, tracing delicate circles and then slow patterns until she was gasping for breath, her fingers tangled in his loose curls as he slowly brought her back down from her peak, her juices collecting in his beard while her chest heaved.

She was practically boneless against the furs, but in time he helped her to reposition to a normal sprawl across the bed, her braid starting to unwind in places against the pillows. Through her daze she could still feel him pressed hard and warm against her thigh.

“Come here,” she whispered, practically giggling, and he shifted to be on top of her, his hair almost long enough now to graze her cheeks like this. Her legs spread naturally, inviting him to sit in the cradle of her hips, and his eyes blazed with heat. 

“I’ve missed you.” One hand smoothed over her jawline and she turned into it, letting her eyes shut naturally. The way her legs crooked over his waist felt as easy as breathing, and she brought her hand up to intertwine with his next to her head, letting his weight sink down on top of her. 

“I’ve missed you as well.” When the head of his cock nudged at her again, she settled downwards with a moan, letting him push his way in slowly and surely. 

The fire spat and crackled behind them, enveloping the room in its warmth, yet Sansa shivered when he traced her from jaw to hip, smooth and even as they moved in tandem together. 

“I wanted you, from the day I first met you,” Jon gasped out, entranced by the way her skin shimmered with sweat. “Do you remember that day?”

It took her a moment, distracted by the way his muscles rippled as he thrusted into her, but it finally came to her. “Near the Trident, in the Riverlands?”

“There’s a good girl.” He panted twice before continuing. “Your hair was down, all wavy from the heat, and you were wearing a blue dress, clear as the sky.” 

It was her mother’s dress in truth, that she had given Sansa as a farewell gift when they traveled south. “And you knew from that moment?”

“I did, and I still do,” he grunted, his hand pausing on her waist to grip her hard. “I want you, I need you, I love you.” 

“As I love you.” She buried her face in his neck, pressing kisses to his salty skin wherever she could reach. 

“Sansa, love… I don’t think…” His pace had increased, their skin making a wet slapping sound together as he gripped her even tighter, sure to leave bruises on her pale skin. 

“Just don’t think,” she whispered back, nudging her nose against his cheek, and she felt him let out a long sigh against her skin, his hips pressed as tightly to hers as they could, and he shuddered before collapsing in her arms.

He was heavy like that, but Sansa couldn’t find it in herself to mind. His weight felt comforting more than anything, and she took her time carding her fingers through his curls, slightly damp at the roots. 

When he finally rolled to her side with a huff of breath, she went with him, unwilling to untangle their limbs. One hand came up to trace the edges of her hairline, and his eyes were wide and searching. 

“What shall we do once we’re at Winterfell?”

“What we’ve been doing,” Sansa said playfully, her hand trailing down his chest, but he stopped her quietly. 

“You’re more to me than this.” 

“Of course, but…” her eyes dropped down, ashamed. 

“Robb already knows about us, and he’s set to marry a bastard himself. If the king decreed it…”

“But would he?” She burrowed deeper into his skin, the chill of the room setting in. “I am a princess.”

“No one will protect you better than I would. I would be with you, always.” 

“It’s a pretty fantasy, Jon, but the reality is that princesses don’t get to decide who they marry.” 

“But the king does!” He held her face tightly between his hands, his eyes earnest. “Robb could decree that we marry, to, to…”

“What advantage would he gain, Jon?” she asked. “He could marry me to a Karstark or a Glover and seal loyalty from his bannermen. He could marry me to a southerner to gain an alliance that could get us food or goods during winter. But to marry his most important pawn, until he has children of his own, to a southron bastard… it doesn’t make sense, politically.” 

“I’m not only a southron bastard. I’m the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen.” His face was hard as steel.

“The dragons are all dead, Jon. The Targaryen name doesn’t hold power anymore.” 

“Don’t you think there are still people who want the Targaryens to come back? I am the last living heir to the line.”

“Not the last.”

“What do you mean?” He looked confused for once, and Sansa realized again the power of a lordly education.

“There’s still Viserys, Rhaegar’s brother, exiled in Essos. And his sister, Daenerys.”

“A son comes before a brother.”

“A bastard comes before no one,” she retorted. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to stop loving each other.” 

“I won’t stop loving you.” 

“Nor I you, ever.” The kiss they shared was bittersweet, anxious, and Sansa finally drew the furs up to cover them, trying to ward off the chill.

“We have little enough time,” she whispered into his skin. “Robb must meet Myrcella and wed, of couse, and I only have a moon in the North to be true. We cannot plan two royal weddings in a moon’s time.”

“What if we wed first?” 

“Pardon?” She reared back, hands on his chest, but he didn’t seem to be joking.

“You keep to the Old Gods. Once we’re in Winterfell, we’ll wed at the heart tree, and then you can marry no one else.”

“We can’t,” she breathed, but her mind was a traitor. She could already see herself, wreathed in snow, with Jon cloaking her in black and red.

“We could. Tell Robb that he is avoiding a Targaryen uprising by wedding the last of the line to his cause. It can work.” 

“This is madness, Jon, truly.” 

“I will resort to any amount of madness to be with you.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, surprisingly soft. “I want to be yours, Sansa.” 

“And I yours, but we cannot hide it from him. It would be a scandal, and so early in his rule, I couldn’t do that to him.” 

“So we tell him. He already knows about us, Sansa, it can’t be that much of a shock. Use my lineage. I don’t care about it, but he might, and his bannermen surely will. I don’t want power. They can use this marriage to put me in my place,” he said wryly. 

“It seems too good to be true.”

“It all depends on what Robb decides to do.”

“We may be stealing his thunder, wedding first.” 

“He’ll get it back. He seems the type.” 

“That he does,” she mused. “Once we’re in Winterfell, we tell him our plan.”

“And pray that he listens.”

***

The farther North they traveled, the more fierce the autumn became. Sansa almost longed for King’s Landing again, the knowledge that right now she could be garbed in light and airy linen and feel comfortable, instead of shivering in her warmest wool dress with only a light cloak as warmth.

Jon was freezing as well. Never having been farther north than the Riverlands, he was unused to snow. It was not yet winter, but they froze all the same. 

It took them two more weeks of riding before they could see Winterfell off in the distance, and it would be another day’s ride before they were actually there. Robb had tried to keep them in high spirits, but she was tired of riding, of traveling, of constantly moving. Sansa longed to sit with her mother for an afternoon and just sew, without all the worry of packing and moving and hurrying up to wait. 

When the gates finally opened before them, Sansa would have wept, save for the fact that they just would have frozen on her cheeks. 

Standing behind the great doors, Rickon on one side and Hodor wearing Bran on the other, was her mother. 

She looked much older than Sansa remembered, although it had been less than a year since she had seen her last. She had the happiest smile on her face as she opened her arms. “Welcome home.”

Sansa was off her horse before she realized it, sprinting forward to throw herself in her mother’s arms, feeling like a child again. 

She only let go when her father tapped on her shoulder, eager to reunite with his wife. 

Sansa only spun to hug Rickon instead, and he only tolerated it for a short moment before squirming out of her arms and pushing her over to hug Bran instead. 

It was a long, happy moment before Catelyn asked, “You haven’t found Arya?”

A tense, nervous silence erupted between them all, and Sansa had to be the one to break it. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”

“Why wouldn’t she? We are her family.” 

“I’ve sent search parties out…” 

“As have I,” Robb butted in. “We haven’t found her, Mother. She’s a smart girl. She’ll come around when she wants to.” 

Catelyn pursed her lips, but it only lasted a second before she turned and said, “I’m sure you’re all ready to relax. Robb, your castle awaits.” 

Winterfell looked much the same as it did before, and yet so different. Her time was limited here, and Sansa wouldn’t waste a moment of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this doesn't feel too rushed - I wanted to get to Winterfell, and I hate writing lengthy travel sequences because they're just so boring to me. 
> 
> Next chapter we should get more Margaery and Myrcella. Thanks for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little more lighthearted today! Next chapter will be full of adventure.

She missed her wolf. She had spent nigh on a year without her, and Sansa knew that Lady was here, in the only place that made sense.

She left Jon at the entrance to the godswood. “I want to see her alone,” she had insisted, and he finally agreed to wait on the path that led to the great weirwood for her.

Sansa knelt in front of the glassy pool at the foot of the tree, staring into the face of the gods. _Give me my wolf back,_ she begged silently. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, come home again. Let me have my wolf._

She was only kneeling long enough for the cold to pierce through her skirts when she heard a rustle of leaves, and two bright golden eyes appeared at the edge of the wood.

“Lady?” 

Her wolf shouldered through the trees, shaking out her long fur, and Sansa felt tears well up in her eyes. She was still lovely, her fur a smoky, silvery grey, her eyes gentle and trusting, and Sansa rose to her feet to meet her.

She wasn’t quite as tall as Grey Wind, but she still came up to Sansa’s chest. “Do you remember me?” she murmured, and Lady cocked her head before trotting up and pushing her snout into Sansa’s belly, rough enough to knock her to the ground.

“Oof!” She almost panicked for a second, remembering the way Rickon’s wolf used to bite anyone who got too close, but instead Lady settled down next to her on the ground and began to lick her face in long, wet strokes.

She was warm, her fur long and silky, and Sansa ran her fingers through it happily, remembering all the ribbons she had tied around Lady’s neck. She was still kind and soft, the nicest of the wolf pups, although she was a pup no longer. 

“I missed you, girl.” Lady nudged at her hand then, and Sansa kept scratching around her neck. “I never wanted to leave you.”

They played together next to the heart tree for some time, reveling in each other’s company. “Would you like to go to King’s Landing, girl?” 

Lady cocked her head again, her ears alert. “We would give Stannis a run for his money together, you and I.” 

They left the godswood together, and Sansa vowed they wouldn’t be apart again. 

When they found Jon, sleeping slumped against a tree near the entrance, Lady jumped on his legs and began to lick his face eagerly until he awoke with a gasp and a sputter, seeing the wolf an inch from his face while Sansa laughed so hard she nearly doubled over. 

Sansa only got three glorious days of playing with Bran and Rickon, sewing with her mother, and occasionally overseeing her brother’s court with Lady at her feet before their relative peace was broken by the arrival of Myrcella and Margaery.

Sansa had composed herself carefully for this meeting. She had loved Margaery like a sister, once. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

The gates of Winterfell were already open when the two women rode up, both frozen to the bone but sitting up straight and proud. 

Sansa had come prepared, however, remembering their trip north all too well. She went to Margaery first, kissing her cheek before wrapping her in one of the heavier fur cloaks she had taken from the chests in Winterfell. They were old and slightly dusty, only used in the winters for the smallfolk, but they would keep her friends warm for the time being. 

She swept Myrcella into a full hug, surprising herself with how much she had missed her friend. Sansa produced another cloak, making sure to pull the hood over Myrcella’s curls. 

“I know that the wolves scared you once before, Cella, but I hope you might give Lady another chance.” 

Myrcella drew her chin up, but Sansa could see her hands shaking still. 

“Lady, to me.” Lady trotted forward, and Sansa laid her hand on her neck, soothing the skin under her fur. “Lady is really quite gentle, and we have had absolutely no trouble with her. You could pet her, if you like.”

One of Myrcella’s trembling hands reached forward, and Lady held perfectly still as Myrcella stroked her back once, then again. When she scratched under the wolf’s chin, her tongue flopped out much like a dog’s, and Myrcella giggled. 

“You’re not so rough, are you?” Lady licked her hand roughly, and Myrcella laughed happily. Sansa took both hers and Margaery’s hands to lead them to the castle, leaving Lady and the Hound to trail behind them, looking at each other apprehensively.

“We’ve had chambers made up for the both of you, of course, for however long you need to stay in Winterfell. They’re sparse, with winter coming, but they’re warm. I’m sure you’re hungry, after your long ride. Can I offer you lunch in my brother’s solar?” 

Myrcella only nodded absently, too immersed in gazing around her to take in the castle, but Margaery answered quickly. “I’d love to meet your brother, Sansa, and lunch sounds delightful. We’ve heard tales of the Young Wolf all the way in Highgarden.” 

“All good, I’d hope,” Sansa said, and Myrcella giggled next to her. 

“Does he truly take his wolf into battle?” Margaery asked.

“Grey Wind is much more fierce than my Lady, and goes wherever Robb goes.” Even Margaery looked a little shocked at that, and Sansa was quick to reassure them. “He won’t harm you, not a bit. He adores Robb, and Robb keeps him to hand. But yes, he does go into battle with my brother, and often comes out the victor.”

“I heard that he can turn into a wolf himself,” Myrcella whispered, and Sansa laughed gently. 

“No need to fear, Cella, my brother cannot turn into a wolf, no more than you can turn into a lion.” She smiled bashfully at that.

“Margaery, how has your brother Loras been? I haven’t seen him with you.”

“Oh, he’s here. I’m sure you’ll find him in the practice yard soon. He’s gotten this notion in his head that he will join a Kingsguard.”

“He would join Stannis?” 

“Perhaps. In all honesty, I think he would prefer Robb’s.”

Sansa was stunned. “Robb has no Kingsguard.”

“I do think he should. There’s no greater honor for a knight than to protect a royal family.”

“You should bring that idea to him at lunch, Margaery. I’m sure he would be delighted to hear it from you.” Sansa passed her an open smile, one that Margaery reciprocated tenfold. 

“I am ever so excited to meet him. After all we’ve heard about him…” she trailed off, and Myrcella giggled again. 

“Cella, I thought you were interested in someone else.” Sansa tilted her glance back behind them, and Myrcella sobered.

“I was, Sansa,” she almost whispered. “I made quite the fool of myself between Storm’s End and Highgarden, and I’m afraid that door closed to me.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Sansa said honestly, squeezing her hand extra tight. “You are under my protection now, and I promise I will make you a match with someone worthy of you. I promised your mother that I would.”

“Thank you, Sansa.” One tear trailed down her cheek, and she wiped it away quickly. 

They had finally arrived at Robb’s solar, and Sansa took their cloaks from them quickly before tucking a loose strand of hair behind Myrcella’s ear.

Sansa knocked before letting herself into his solar, pleased to see that the table had already been set with an impressive feast. Lady trotted past her and stretched out in front of the hearth next to Grey Wind, after the two nipped at each other playfully. 

Both Jon and Robb were seated on one side of the table, laughing about something she had missed, before Robb slowly turned and caught sight of the women in front of him.

Sansa saw him smile politely at Margaery, who was positively beaming at him, but then his gaze traveled to Myrcella and stayed there. His smile was soft, shy almost, and she saw him look her up and down, obviously quite pleased, before he stood quickly and bowed to them both.

“My ladies. Welcome to Winterfell.”

“There’s no need to bow, your grace,” Margaery said, already deep in a curtsey. “We’re so grateful for your hospitality. I’ve been so excited to meet you, ever since Sansa invited us to your capital.” 

“You’re welcome, Lady Margaery,” he said, almost curt, before turning to Myrcella and offering her a hand to lift her out of her curtsey. 

“Sansa told me you were lovely, but she seems to have downplayed your beauty. It’s a pleasure to have you at Winterfell, Lady Myrcella.” 

Myrcella flushed prettily at that, but Sansa was watching Margaery instead, the way she tilted her head just a little, the tiniest furrow between her eyes before she laughed lightly and said, “I am famished. Your grace, shall we eat?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Let me get your seat for you, Myrcella.” 

Sansa noted how he placed Myrcella in the seat directly across from his, and she quickly moved to sit next to her, across from Jon, who had been lazily watching the entire interaction. 

Margaery sat on her other side, but angled her body so that she was facing Robb easily. 

“How does it feel to be home again, King Robb?” Myrcella asked quietly, allowing him to cut her a portion of the rack of lamb between them on the table while she fingered her wine glass.

“Better than you could imagine, my lady,” he said honestly, pausing to give her a genuine smile. “War wears on a man, and I missed my family.”

“It’s a shame you have so many duties, as king,” Margaery cut in, fingers wrapped delicately around her wine glass. “A good queen could help you balance them.” 

She was using her best smoldering smile, her elbows propped on the table to accentuate her chest, yet Robb had eyes only for Myrcella. 

“I do agree, Marg,” Sansa said. “And of course, the people would be delighted for a royal wedding.” 

“The realm longs for a great many things,” Jon finally added, still lounging back in his seat. “Heirs, and spares, and peace.” 

“Do stop it,” Sansa chided him, pointing her dagger his way. “Robb doesn’t need your pressure.” 

While they were bickering, Robb still hadn’t taken his eyes off Myrcella, looking slightly dopey. Margaery, of course, looked put out. 

“Did you know, Robb, that my mother had three sons? My brothers were all excellent fighters as well, until poor Willas broke his leg.” 

Sansa had to kick him under the table before Robb jumped. “What?”

“Margaery was speaking to you.” She gave Margaery a mock pout, and Robb quickly apologized. 

“Do tell me again, my lady. I was quite distracted.” He smiled at Myrcella again, who at least had the decency to duck her head. 

“It’s no worries, your grace. I was simply trying to make small talk.” 

Sansa scooped up some buttered peas delicately, trying not to grin. 

“Are you cold, my lady?” Robb was asking Myrcella. “You seem a bit underdressed for our weather.”

“I am a bit,” Myrcella admitted. She had on long sleeves, but her dress was satin instead of wool.

“The hot springs run through our castle, but they are stronger in some places than in others. Unfortunately, this is one of the chillier places,” Sansa explained while Robb called a maid in to tend the fire. 

“I appreciate your kindness,” Myrcella murmured when Robb sat back down, sharing a shy smile together. 

“I bet that Sansa could lend you some of her warmer clothes, while you’re here. As long as you don’t mind?” Robb turned to her then, open pleading on his face, and Sansa laughed.

“Of course you can borrow my things, Cella. They may be a little long on you, but we can take a few of them up. You’ll be here for quite some time while we arrange your marriage.” 

“Sansa, you’re too kind to me,” Myrcella said, squeezing her hand tightly. 

“Not too kind,” Sansa argued. “You deserve the best.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” Robb said.

“I may need something to warm me up, as well,” Margaery said, leaning forward once again to show off all the bare skin on her chest. “Sansa’s dresses won’t fit me of course, we have much different shapes.”

“Mayhaps Sansa could recommend a seamstress for you,” Robb said offhandedly, and Jon actually let out a snorting laugh before Sansa kicked him under the table, too. 

The maids came in to clear away the table and Sansa stood up, Margaery quickly following her lead while Myrcella stayed seated. 

“Cella, won’t you come with? You could try on a few of my dresses, see what fits,” Sansa offered gently, not wanting to break the bubble that she and Robb seemed to be in. 

“Yes, of course, Sansa, I’m so sorry.” She stood up then, shaking her hair around her shoulders before curtseying to Robb. “Thank you for sharing lunch with us, your grace.” 

“I would be honored to see you at dinner as well.” Robb was blushing, now, and Sansa felt pride swell up in her chest. It was easier than she could have anticipated to push them together.

Margaery curtsied as well, a cursory “Your Grace” slipping past her lips as she was the first one out the door. 

Sansa followed her quickly, Lady, Jon, and Myrcella at her heels. “Jon, would you be so kind as to escort Margaery to her chambers? Myrcella and I will walk to my chambers together.”

“Of course.” Jon had been smirking lazily for all of lunch, and it didn’t change now as he offered his arm to Margaery and hustled her away down the hall. 

Once they were a safe distance away, Sansa took Myrcella’s hand again. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what did you think of my brother?”

She flushed. “He is… more handsome than I anticipated.” 

“I’ve heard that quite a lot, actually,” Sansa said. 

“He seemed quite kind, and mindful of his people. He will make a good match for Margaery.” Her voice trailed off at the end, her eyes dropping to her feet, and Sansa pulled her closer to her side as they walked.

“Myrcella, I know that Margaery has probably been prattling all the way here about how she is to be betrothed to my brother…”

“She has.”

“I have absolutely no intention of that happening,” Sansa said bluntly, and Myrcella’s eyes snapped up, hopeful. 

“I think that you and my brother are well matched, Cella, and I want you to be happy, very much.”

“But… my mother…” 

“I don’t care what your mother did,” Sansa said, as gently as she could. “You have been my dearest friend, ever since I came to the capital. I want you to have every happiness in life, and I think you could have that here.”

“You want me to be his queen?”

“If that’s what you want, then yes. I would be happy to arrange a betrothal between the two of you. I’ve spoken to Robb about it, and he is quite inclined to the notion.”

A small smile crept across Myrcella’s face, warming Sansa’s heart. “Thank you, Sansa. Thank you so much.”

“I only want you to be happy, Cella. We could be sisters again, you and I.” 

“I would like that very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and let me know what you think!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in two days?? I am BURSTING with productivity, you guys. Hope you enjoy!

“I don’t much appreciate your duplicity, Sansa.” 

Margaery was never one to show her anger. She could usually hide her feelings under a veneer of kindness, but for the first time, Sansa could see the tension in her neck and shoulders.

“I simply invited you here to meet my brother and perhaps forge an alliance between his new kingdom and the bounty of the Reach. We will need trade agreements for when winter is here.”

“‘Forge an alliance?’ You know exactly what that means.” Margaery paced for a moment before stabbing her finger at Sansa. “You used me to get Myrcella.”

“Myrcella is a good friend of mine, and I promised she would be well looked after. She’s been royalty her entire life, queenship will suit her,” Sansa said, almost bored. Margaery had been pacing for nigh on a quarter of an hour now, back and forth in Sansa’s chambers while Sansa herself lounged in an armchair, wondering when her fire would burn out. 

“I thought that we were friends, Sansa. You had such faith in my abilities when I married Renly. You swore you would help me take the throne.” 

“I swore nothing,” Sansa sighed, wishing she had a glass of wine. “We need peace. Myrcella’s hand will stay Lord Tywin’s.”

“My father is expecting a marriage proposal. I don’t mean to disappoint him.” Margaery strode over to her, suddenly calm. “You say you need an alliance with the Reach.”

“Your foodstuffs will ensure my people survive through the winter,” Sansa replied, cautiously. 

“Forge an alliance with us, then. You’re a widow now, and my brother needs a wife.” 

Sansa gave a short laugh. “Loras isn’t interested in me.”

“Not Loras, Willas. Marry my brother, and the North will never starve.” 

Sansa stood slowly, drawing herself up to her full height. “Are you saying that if I don’t marry your brother, your father will refuse to trade with the North?”

“I’m not saying anything of the sort, dear. I could never speak for my lord father in such a manner. All I’m saying is that if my brother were made a prince, I’m sure Garlan would respond positively to an agreement with yours.”

“It’s imperative for our kingdoms to work together, Margaery. The North can survive on its own, but we’d rather have your support.”

“I suppose you should bring this proposal to Robb, then. I shan’t need to stay long, now that my prospects here are limited.” Margaery gathered her skirts around her haughtily and stalked from the room, head held high. 

Sansa slumped back into her seat, head in her hands. It seemed that her problems were endless, and solutions too far away. 

_I suppose I could marry Willas,_ she mused to herself. It wouldn’t be a terrible life. He was rumored to be kind, with little in the way of ambition since he hurt his leg. She would still live at King’s Landing, and would have no pressure in the way of making heirs. It would only be a political marriage, in truth…

But she wanted to marry for love. 

Ten minutes later she burst into Jon’s chambers, panting slightly. “Let’s go talk to Robb.”

“Sansa. Are you sure?”

She was almost of top of him, yanking on his arm. “I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“Sansa, slow down. Why are you so eager?”

She stopped tugging on his arm so hard and instead swiveled to face him, still red-faced from her sprint. 

“It’s been less than two weeks and I’ve already gotten two marriage proposals. I don’t want to keep creating excuses as to why I don’t wish to wed. I want to be wed again, to the man that I love.”

“Robb will never allow us this, Sansa. You know that,” he said gently, cupping her face in one hand. “We may dream that he suddenly grows a soft heart and allows you to wed whom you wish, but you are too valuable to him.” 

“Let’s get married now, then.” She turned to the door again, with every intention of running straight to the godswood, until he caught her arm. 

“Wait.”

“For what, Jon? I don’t want to wait any longer. I love you. I love you, and that’s all that I care about. I will not be bartered away by my brother or my father or anyone else. My father gave me to Joffrey, and I will not be given away again. I choose you.”

Sansa barely had a moment to register the blazing look on his face before he threw his arms around her waist and pulled her mouth to his, fast and hard. 

When they finally pulled apart, both panting now, he said “I was only saying to wait, because…” Jon crossed to the chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out a thick cloak, grey with a russet fur around the edges. 

“It’s no maiden’s cloak, but it will do the job.”

It was a miracle they didn’t run into anyone important on their sprint to the godswood, Lady nipping at their heels the entire way. 

It wasn’t until they were at the entrance to the godswood that Jon turned to her slowly. “How will we explain this to Robb?”

“I brought him a wife. It’s only fitting that I get a husband.” 

Jon scoffed at that, but allowed her to take his hand and lead him into the godswood anyway.

“I know you don’t keep to the Old Gods.” 

“This feels right,” he whispered, staring up at the red face of the gods. 

They fell to their knees together, bowing their heads in the presence of the gods. 

There was only a thin crust of snow on the ground, but more was falling slowly around them, tangling in Jon’s dark curls and making Lady look more white than grey for once. Sansa’s hair tumbled around her shoulders, unbound but for her twin braids, and as they knelt, she reached for Jon’s hand. 

After several long moments, he finally raised his head, eyes glued to the weirwood’s face. “How does this work?”

“Ask who comes before the gods,” she murmured, mindful of the way the wind whispered around them. 

“Who comes before the gods today?” His voice shook slightly, but was clear. 

“Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble. I come to beg the blessing of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

Jon took a deep breath before answering. “Jon Sand, bastard son of Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

They paused for a moment, before Sansa nudged him. “Ask me if I take this man.”

He turned to face her, his eyes wet. “Sansa, do you take this man?”

“I take this man,” she whispered, their eyes glued together. Jon shook out his old cloak and draped it over her shoulders, making sure to clasp it beneath her chin. It took some effort for her to tear her eyes from him and return to bowing her head, praying silently. 

The snow began to swirl down more quickly then, sticking to her shoulders and knees, but she stayed still. It wasn’t until Lady came forward and nudged her in the chest with her warm nose that Sansa straightened her back, finding Jon staring at her already. 

“The Old Gods approve,” she whispered, tilting her face up to taste the snowflakes. 

“You’re so beautiful like this.” 

Sansa opened her eyes slowly, savoring the chill on her skin. Jon was looking at her like he did that day in King’s Landing, like he could never get his fill. 

“Thank you, husband,” she teased, and his smile was warmer than any heart. 

“Come here, wife.” 

She threaded her fingers through his hair when he kissed her, savoring his taste on her tongue. When he unclasped his own cloak from his shoulders and threw it down beneath her, she only giggled and slipped her tongue into his mouth, letting him bear her down onto the ground. 

It was too cold with the falling snow to undress, so she made do with yanking her dress and shift up to her belly while Jon unlaced his breeches. 

When he settled his weight onto her, smoothing her dress out so that there was as little between them as possible, they both sighed happily. 

“We should share chambers, after this,” he murmured into her hair, fisting it gently.

“It’s only fitting for man and wife,” she agreed with a gasp as he thrust deeply into her, claiming her. 

Jon fell silent for a time, his face buried in her long locks, kissing them and the skin of her neck beneath while he kept to his rhythm deep inside her.

Sansa brought his face back up to hers to kiss him, feeling the play of muscles in his back as her hands wandered. 

“You feel too good, love,” he grunted as she locked her legs around his waist, shamelessly grinding her hips into his in circles. 

“Not too good,” she argued breathlessly, encouraging him to speed up a little. 

“If you keep that up, this will be over too quickly,” he warned her, his face already beginning to flush. 

“We have all the time in the world to make up for it.”

He finished inside her with a grunt and a gasp, his hand wound tightly in her curls as he came back down slowly. 

Jon kissed her gently on each cheek, the tip of her nose, and her forehead as she giggled, feeling the cold come rushing back to her exposed legs. 

He was lacing his breeches back up, and she wasted no time standing up to shake her dress down her legs and bounce up and down in place, trying to warm herself. When Lady trotted back over, Sansa placed her hand on the wolf’s neck, trying to look imperious.

“Tonight, you’re returning the favor.”

*****

“I don’t understand how you could do this, Sansa. Behind my back, no less.” 

Robb was fuming at her. She had come to his solar, still running on the high of their impromptu wedding, somehow expecting him to accept her actions. She was wrong.

“I am a former queen and a princess of the North. I get to decide who my husband is!” Sansa shouted, pointing her finger at him.

“Jon is a bastard, with no lands, no titles, no allegiances of any sort. You could have given us the _Reach!_ ”

“I don’t care about the damn Reach! We can feed our people without allowing Margaery to push us around!”

“That food would have made a world of difference for our smallfolk, and you know it. This was selfish, Sansa, selfish.” 

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare,”_ she hissed at him, cold all over. “I did my duty to this family. I married Joffrey. I tolerated his shouting, his fists, I did everything a loyal wife is expected to do. I do not have to endure that again, not for you or for anyone else.” 

Robb looked almost hurt, then. “You know neither Father nor I would wed you to someone who we knew would hurt you.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Joffrey hit me long before we were wed. I’m sure Father saw the bruise, but it was too late to back out on his dear friend Robert. I am a grown woman and a widow, and I chose my husband. It’s too late for you to take that away from me.”

“Dammit, Sansa, how do I explain this to my men?” 

“Tell them it was your idea.” 

“Excuse me?”

Her fire had begun to cool, now. “Tell them about Jon’s father, and Aunt Lyanna. Tell them we wed to keep the peace.”

“None of my men will believe that.”

“Make them.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to Dua Lipa's IDGAF on repeat there at the end, if you couldn't tell. Thanks for reading!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short (and probably filler), but it's something. There are only a few more things I want to get to, so we're getting close to the end! Next chapter will be another wedding! Thank you all for reading.

The Great Hall was filled with men, both high lords and small, and each and every one of them was staring at Sansa Stark. 

_Courtesy is a lady’s armor,_ she reminded herself, her back stiff and straight as a nail. She would not act out in front of her brother’s men, no matter how much they angered her.

“We feared a rebellion against the South, my lords, for a Targaryen restoration.” 

Robb spoke clearly, but even Sansa could tell he wasn’t truly trying to sell the notion to his men. 

“My sister wed Jon Sand for the good of our people, to save us from another war that would have cost many more of your lives. I will put my people first always, and that is why I approved this union.” 

Now he just sounded bored.

Sansa uncrossed and recrossed her legs at the high table, next to her brother’s side. Even Grey Wind seemed lazy today, sprawled out at Robb’s feet and snoring quietly. 

There was quiet murmuring, but no shouting yet. Sansa took that as a good sign. 

“I believe Sansa had something she wished to say to you all.” 

She wiped the sweat off her palms onto her lap nervously.

“Jon does not wish to sit a throne. We wed before announcing his parentage, so that the Targaryen line would be forever linked to the Starks by marriage. The two of us are happy to support my brother, King Robb, and I will still be acting as his ambassador to King Stannis in the South.”

“Forgive me, your grace, but how can we trust them to not turn on us once they go south?” It was a freckly youth that spoke, one of the Cerwyn boys, and his father elbowed him in the side the second he began to speak.

“I have faith in my sister, my lord. She is a loyal woman, and we can trust her to do her duty.”

“We are only looking after the wellbeing of all of you, my good lords. I wish to see a true end to this war, and to the Targaryen rule. Jon has agreed to take my name and become a Stark.”

Even Robb’s head snapped to her then, disbelief in his eyes. 

She stood anyway, looking above all of the men, all of their incredulous stares. “I truly apologize that we have forsaken a marriage alliance with one of you noble families. The threat of war was much too important for myself or my brother to ignore. I hope we will see you all at his wedding in a fortnight.”

She saw herself out of the back of the hall then, shutting the heavy door behind her and leaning against it with a heavy sigh.

“Well, no one shouted, at least.”

“Not yet, anyway.” She peeked at Jon, slouched against the wall next to the door. “They didn’t seem very happy.”

“I’m sure they’re each individually offended about losing their family’s opportunity to wed a princess.”

“Who says I would have wed any of them, anyway?” she asked, pressing her forehead against the door.

“Your brother, for one.”

She sighed heavily. “I love my brother, I do. But I will be much happier when we’re back in King’s Landing.”

“It is a bit more… private than Winterfell is,” Jon said, his eyes cutting over to hers slyly. 

“We have plenty of privacy here!” 

He rolled his eyes at her. “We only get to share a bedchamber officially as of tonight, your mother pops in and out at all hours of the day, and you yourself flit around the castle so much we’re lucky if we get a minute to ourselves.”

“That is my duty, Jon. I must know our people to be able to negotiate on their behalf.”

“You’re so sexy when you talk politics.” He was smirking, but his eyes shone at her genuinely.

She grinned back at him, but with her head pressed against the door, she could still hear too much of what was going on in the Great Hall. 

“... if you can’t even control your sister…” someone was shouting, loudly enough that even Jon’s eyes widened for a moment. 

“And, there’s the shouting,” Sansa said dryly. 

“You Northerners don’t hold back a whit, do you?” 

“Our men can certainly be… opinionated.”

“Firey, like the Dornish. I appreciate a good shouting match every now and then.” Jon pushed himself off the wall and held a hand out to her. “Come, now. There’s no need for you to listen to this.”

“I caused this, Jon. I should listen to what I’ve done.”

“Either way, you won’t be. Come, sweet girl.”

She finally took his hand and allowed him to pull her throughout the halls, winding their way back to the chambers they now shared. 

She had plopped in front of their hearth with a pair of Jon’s breeches, mending a tear from a sparring match earlier that week when she finally sighed. “I can’t believe we only have a fortnight here.”

“I thought you were happy to go back to the capital,” Jon said, honing his sword in the chair across from her.

“I am, truly. But I will miss Mother, and Father, and the boys as well.”

“We can come back and visit, once in a while,” Jon said softly. 

“I suppose so.” She picked at her thread idly. “Do you ever want to go back and visit Dorne?”

He paused for a moment, his sword gleaming in hand. “I think I would. Allyria was like a mother to me. I would like to see her again.”

“We must plan on it, then. After a year or two in the capital, we visit Dorne.”

The smallest of smiles played around his lips then. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“It’s only fair.”

She put her needle aside then, stretching her arms above her head. “Myrcella and I were planning on doing some wedding arrangements today. Do you think I have time for a nap before then?”

“Only if this nap is less than an hour long.” 

“I suppose I should be on my way, then, no matter how tired I am.” Sansa crossed the room to kiss him gently, cupping his face in her hands before patting it gently. 

She met Myrcella in her solar. They were planning on rebuilding some of the First Keep for Robb, as official chambers and political seat for their new king, but for now everyone was crushed in together. 

Myrcella wrapped her in a hug once she entered, but her eyes were sad. “I wish you had invited me to your wedding.”

Sansa felt suddenly queasy. “It was rather last minute, Cella.” 

Myrcella frowned prettily, still holding Sansa’s hand. “I would have come anyway. You are my sister, in all but truth now, and I want to support you.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it would bother you.” Sansa’s brow creased. She had barely thought it through, it was true, but she didn’t intend to hurt anyone.

“Your mother was upset about it too,” Myrcella confided. “She didn’t say as much, of course, but I could tell all the same.” 

“Well, we must make your wedding spectacular, to make up for mine. How is your maiden’s cloak coming along?”

Myrcella sighed again. “I just don’t have the skill to make it as fine as it needs to be. I’m marrying a king, becoming a queen… My needlework is good, but it’s not as beautiful as I’d wish.”

“Well, let me see it, then.”

She shook out the cloak, a heavy cloth-of-gold background with a roaring lion half-plucked out. “It looks fine, it does, but it’s not fit for a queen.”

“Mayhaps I could help?” Sansa offered gently. “My maiden’s cloak was quite lovely, I think, and I have gotten even better since then. I wouldn’t mind.”

Myrcella threw her arms around her then, the cloak crushed between them. “You are wonderful, truly.” 

“Now, onto your hair. I know you’re southron, but we must do it in a Northern style. How about…” 

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in her solar. Myrcella had no idea how a Northern ceremony was conducted, and Sansa had to write down the words she would be expected to use so that Myrcella wouldn’t forget. 

The Northerners were much less frivolous, and so she didn’t require nearly as much decorum as Sansa did for her wedding. Much of Myrcella’s jewelry was gaudy enough for her wedding, and before long, they had everything but her dress and cloak in order. 

Sansa left with the cloak right before supper, a vision of a ruby lioness dancing in her head, wishing she could begin that very moment. It was all too necessary for her to show up to every meal, every council meeting now, so that the men may trust her when she leaves for the capital.

Jon sat next to her now, as befit a new prince of the North, and he seemed even more uncomfortable than she did as they ate their supper. When she nudged him under the table, though, he shrugged her off quietly so she spent the remainder of the meal chatting with her mother about decorations and winter roses and what would be needed to transform their godswood into a proper royal wedding. 

It would take work, but Sansa was determined to give Myrcella and Robb the most beautiful wedding the North had seen. After that, when the capital beckoned, so be it.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait. Real life happened. To make up for it, here's our longest chapter yet!
> 
> I don't think I've ever mentioned - I'm on tumblr as well at the same username (cryoreal). I love connecting with you all there as well!

Sansa was awake before dawn the day of her brother’s wedding, the first royal wedding in the North in centuries. She felt exhausted still, yet too restless to sleep.

Jon was curled around her back, his palm resting heavily on her ribcage, but even that did little to sway her back towards sleep. Her mind was running through her to-do list constantly, despite the fact that none of it needed attended to for several hours.

She and her mother had spent the entire evening the night before preparing wreaths and garlands, arranging candles in holders, even sewing a special piece of fabric for Myrcella to walk down to the heart tree on. There were ropes of flowers from the glass gardens to hang from the great tree, and specially carved logs for the two to kneel upon before the gods. Everything was in order, yet Sansa couldn’t stop worrying.

They wouldn’t begin to prepare the godswood itself until after they broke their fast in Myrcella’s solar, yet Sansa itched to do something other than lay in bed and worry and wait. _It must be perfect,_ she told herself again. Myrcella must be accepted by the Northern men, or she would never hold sway as queen. They didn’t give queens much power in the North, but she must be respected and listened to, at the very least.

Jon’s hand clenched against her ribs before she felt him nuzzle his beard against her back, pressing his lips to her spine gently. 

“Good morning,” she whispered, her hand coming up to cover his.

He grumbled back unintelligibly, and she felt him stretch his legs languorously before pressing his hips against her back, his length trapped between them.

Sansa laughed, almost breathlessly. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“But I am.” His hand traveled lazily down her stomach to rest on the spur of bone sticking out from her hip, helping her to arch against him. “And I have a taste for my lady wife this morning. 

His hand slipped between her legs, opening her folds to spread her wetness around and she groaned, rubbing her ass against him needily. 

“Good girl,” he breathed in her ear, helping her to draw her leg up over his so that his cock could rest against her folds, nudging at her gently. She moaned quietly in response, her hand reaching around behind her to grasp at his curls, pulling his mouth to her neck so that he could suckle at the skin there.

He finally slid deep inside her, his hand still playing with her folds, coming up to rub at her clit when she gasped and arched against him, still holding his face to her neck.

He was rubbing slow circles on her nub, his cock sliding in and out at a torturously slow pace. Sansa writhed against him, her fingers tightening in his hair before she finally gasped out a “please, Jon, please…”

“What do you need, sweet girl?” his lips moved on her neck and she shuddered, loving the way his breath fanned out against her skin.

“Can we… I want to…” It was hard to concentrate with his fingers moving in a gentle dance over her, and she shook her head a little to try to regain her thoughts. “I want to roll over, can we?”

“Of course.” She rolled onto her stomach then, drawing her hair over one shoulder and turning to look at him sultrily, wiggling her ass in the air at him. 

“You little minx,” he breathed, eyes wide as saucers before he rolled to pounce on top of her, holding himself up on his knees while his cock traced around her opening. 

It took a minute of shifting and repositioning her knee, drawn up near her hip, before he was able to slide in easily, drawing her hips up high to meet him while her face stayed pressed into a pillow. 

He set a steady pace behind her and she sighed into the pillow, enjoying the easy slip of his cock into her, the way he filled her so easily. His hand looped back around to play with her clit again, circling and rubbing it slowly and easily, and Sansa thought she had never felt anything so perfect before.

It didn’t take long before her hips were rubbing against his uncontrollably, the band in her stomach tightening until she finally snapped, her hips jerking onto his in a jilted staccato, and she had to bat his hand away from her after a long moment before she melted into the bed, completely spent.

It wasn’t long after that that Jon finished inside her with a long shudder and a sigh, his hands tight over her ass, eventually collapsing down next to her on the bed, their faces only a few inches apart as their breathing evened out together.

Her hand came up to tangle with his as the sunlight began to creep into the room, and she let herself smile slowly. There was no better way to begin the day than with his body wrapped around hers, no fear of someone catching them in the act or exposing them. She had never felt more secure or more safe.

“How much longer do we have until you must leave?” he whispered, his hand running through her hair where it draped over their chests.

“Soon. I must be presentable to break our fast with Myrcella, although I’ll have to change again before the wedding.” 

Jon grinned wryly at that. “I’ve never felt more grateful that I only require one outfit for the day.”

She shoved him gently but snuggled into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her cheek. “I hate that I won’t see you again until the ceremony.”

“Maybe you could sneak away for a bit.” 

“I can’t, truly. I must be there for Myrcella. You should understand, she doesn’t know many people here and if I’m not there, she’ll have Margaery whispering in her ear all day. She’s still bitter that she came all this way for nothing, you know.”

“Margaery can stuff it,” he said casually, still fiddling with her hair. 

“We have to be kind to her. Alliances are important.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” He relinquished her hair then, moving to cup her face instead, sunlight streaming in around them. “You should probably dress soon, love. Our day is beginning.”

She rolled her eyes but pressed her lips to his gently, loving the way his bottom lip felt soft and full between hers. 

As she was tying a robe over herself, there was a gentle knock on the door. 

“Come in,” she called, crossing over to her wardrobe, and one of her lady’s maids peeked her head around the door. 

“Do you need help dressing, your grace?”

“Yes, Sarra, that would be much appreciated.” 

The girl didn’t even cast a glance in Jon’s direction, which he appreciated seeing as he was still completely naked underneath the furs, and instead pulled the dress out of Sansa’s hands to help lace her into her corset first.

“I don’t know how you wear that thing,” Jon said lazily, watching Sarra yank on the cords on Sansa’s back.

“Ladies do a great many things for beauty,” she shot back, her hands gripping her hips. 

She was dressing in light lavender today with cream accents, wolves racing around her sleeves and neckline. Sansa knew she’d change in the afternoon into something more suitable, but for now she appreciated the way the soft wool rubbed against her skin, even as her chest was constricted from the corset.

Sarra braided her hair into a thick crown around her head, leaving no strands behind as Sansa sipped at a cup of tea, her appetite nonexistent. By the time she was finished, Sansa’s tea was cold and her stomach no more calm, but she patted Sarra’s hand and thanked her all the same before the girl left the room again.

Jon finally rolled out of bed then, fumbling around for a pair of breeches before coming up behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve barely touched your tea.”

“I’m not feeling well, honestly,” she confessed. “I’m so nervous about today, I want everything to go perfectly.”

“It will.” He rubbed circles into the tense muscles there before pressing a kiss to her neck. “Everything is going to be wonderful. Promise me you will eat something with the rest of the girls this morning?”

“I can’t promise, but I’ll try.” She threw her arms around his waist for a hug, pressing her cheek into his bare stomach. “I’ll see you just before the ceremony?”

“I’ll be waiting.” She pressed one last kiss to his lips before she left, pacing her way to Myrcella’s solar. 

Her mother was already there when she arrived but Margaery wasn’t, and there was a companionable silence in the way they picked at their breakfasts together. Sansa took a piece of black bread slathered in butter and a crock of preserves and sat down next to her mother, leaning into her companionably while a maid poured her a mug of tea. 

“Are you feeling well this morning?” she asked Myrcella, noting the way her fingers quietly shredded a piece of bread instead of eating it.

“Yes, I’m well. It’s only that…” she cast a nervous glance at Catelyn, who smiled encouragingly at her. 

“I was terrified the morning before my wedding,” Catelyn shared, reaching across the table to cover Myrcella’s hand with her own. “Imagine it, a great, brooding Northern stranger, who spoke almost nothing and had only met me twice before. We were wed in Riverrun, next to my sister and her husband, and I did my duty that night and didn’t see him again for a year.”

Myrcella’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her hands still. “I thought you loved Lord Eddard.”

“I do, child, but I didn’t always. He gave me a babe and went away to war, and I was bitter that year, but I did my duty first. In time, we came to love each other, and our children even more.”

“Do you think Robb might love me one day?” Myrcella whispered, her eyes trained on her plate, and Sansa took the hand her mother wasn’t holding.

“I think that day is closer than you think, Cella. Robb adores you already,” Sansa said coaxingly. “The North is a cold place, it’s true, but my brother will be warm to you. And if he isn’t, you need only to write to me and I will come north and sort him out myself.”

Myrcella laughed then, the color returning to her face, and Sansa squeezed her hand before returning to her breakfast. 

There was a quiet knock on the door before Margaery let herself in, in a much more muted outfit than she usually wore. Sansa noted about two inches less of chest showing and her dress was a deep forest green, instead of the light colors she wore most often in the south.

“Morning, Margaery,” she called, not one to shirk her manners, and Margaery smiled before sitting next to Myrcella, picking up a piece of toast and a small platter of fruits for herself. 

“Morning, ladies. So sorry that I’m late.” She reached over and spooned some of the preserves out of the crock next to Sansa’s plate, spreading them liberally over her bread. “What shall we attend to first this morning?”

“Mother and I were planning on decorating the godswood first, so that after lunch we can work on readying Myrcella for the ceremony.” 

“I could help, if you’d like.”

“How kind of you, Margaery,” Catelyn butted in, cutting Sansa off before she could speak again. “We have a very specific vision, and I’m afraid that your touch may be a bit too southron for our tastes.” 

Margaery smiled a cold smile, her eyes refusing to budge from her plate. “That’s unfortunate.” 

The four of them lapsed into an uneasy silence, continuing through the same lady maid pouring Margaery a cup of black tea as well, and Sansa continued to pick at her plate. It was a long quarter of an hour before she pushed back from the table, laying her hand on her mother’s shoulder.

“I’d like to get started decorating the godswood. Would you come with me?”

“Of course.” 

Sansa walked around the table to hug Myrcella tightly. “We’ll be back in time for lunch. Remember, you shouldn’t see your groom until it is time for the ceremony, it’s bad luck in the North.”

“I remember, Sansa.” Myrcella rolled her eyes gently before patting the back of her hand. “Go, now, or else you’ll sit here and stress until it’s finished.”

It only took them a short moment to stop in the lord’s chambers and pick up all of the decorations they’d created to haul them down to the godswood. It took them several hours to decorate, however, tossing the flower garlands among the old trees of the godswood and creating a makeshift arch in the great weirwood, in front of where the two would stand before the gods.

Sansa had just finished futzing with the placement of the candleholders around the aisle she’d created when it began to snow lightly. The ground was already brown with old pine needles and falling leaves, but as the snow fell it lightened everything to a pure white to match the face of the gods.

“It’s going to be magical.” Catelyn came up behind her, staring at the face of the gods.

“It is.”

“The gods are powerful here,” Catelyn said, her hand stretching out to almost touch their face, but pulling away at the last moment. “I may keep to the Seven, but I respect these gods.”

Sansa reached out her hand to her mother, taking it as they stared at the heart tree together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my wedding.”

“I would have liked to be there. You are my oldest daughter, and I’ve missed two of your weddings, now.”

“I hope there won’t be a third,” Sansa said softly, and they shared a chuckle together.

“I won’t pretend to understand why you did it so quickly, and in secret at that, but it is over now. I am happy that you’re happy.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” 

Sansa felt herself being pulled into a hug then, and she squeezed her mother tightly. 

“Your wedding should have looked like this, too.” 

Sansa buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “I didn’t want a big wedding this time.”

Catelyn clutched her tightly, and Sansa let her tears out into her mother’s shoulder. 

“No. You wouldn’t.”

 

Their lunch flew by, and before long Sansa was instructing her maid, Sarra, on which way to braid Myrcella’s hair while her own lady maid worked on powdering her face gently. 

Her hair ended up half twisted back into an elaborately coiled bun, while the other half curled gently down her back. Myrcella was already squeezed into a heavy golden dress, with long bell-shaped sleeves and a high collar lined with fur to withstand the cold. 

“You look all a Northern princess,” Sansa told her, herself already changed into the more appropriate dress for the ceremony, a sky-blue gown that was embroidered finely but otherwise unembellished. 

“I don’t feel Northern,” Myrcella muttered, toying with the sleeves as they fell over her fingertips. 

“You will eventually,” Catelyn reassured her. “It takes time, and you will never lose your heritage, but this will come to feel like home.”

Sansa and Catelyn walked with her down to the godswood, already full of Northern lords, bannermen, and her husband-to-be, waiting for their future queen. 

Myrcella had no family in the North, no one to give her away, and so Sansa hugged her tightly and quickly before walking into the godswood with her mother, head held high. 

She drew glances and glares from the men, none of whom seemed thrilled to see her until she reached the front of the press to stand at Jon’s side, her mother next to her and closest to the aisle. It was still snowing, showering down on Robb who stood nearest the tree, the snowflakes catching and melting in his hair. 

It was only a few short moments before Myrcella appeared, clutching her fingers together tightly, her eyes wide and nervous, but Sansa was watching Robb.

The second he saw Myrcella, his mouth practically dropped open. Sansa watched him gape at her, looking almost foolish, and allowed herself one small smile. 

Myrcella came forward to stand across from Robb, and the two of them shared a nervous, but happy smile before Ned took a step forward, clearing his throat.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this evening?”

Myrcella’s eyes traveled over to Sansa, worry clear, and she smiled at her and gave her the tiniest of gestures, hoping it gave her strength.

Her voice trembled prettily, but it was strong. “Myrcella of the house Lannister comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, she comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” 

“Robb, of House Stark, King of the North and heir to Winterfell.”

“Lady Myrcella, will you take this man?” Ned spoke once again.

“I take this man,” she said quietly, almost a whisper, her eyes never leaving Robb’s.

Robb was the one to reach for her hand, and the two knelt together in front of the heart tree, bowing their heads in silent prayer. Sansa joined them, after nudging Jon to do so as well, and the only sound was the whispering wind and the drifting snowflakes. 

Robb helped Myrcella back to her feet and then unclasped the red-and-gold cloak around her shoulders, handing it back to his father as he shook out a great cloak embroidered with the Stark direwolf and fastened it around her chin, gently and lovingly. 

It was all rather quiet, and very quick, the flower chains rustling in the breeze and the candles guttering as the flames fought with the wind. Robb took his new wife’s hand and led her out of the godswood, and the two of them led the way back to the Great Hall for their feast, not a soul speaking a word until they had left the home of the gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end here - I'm thinking there shouldn't be any more than 3 chapters left, maybe 2 if I crunch things a bit. You all have been so lovely and supportive, and I'm sad that we're almost finished.
> 
> I'll probably shift my focus back to my other WIP once this is done, and I doubt my penchant for oneshots will run out soon, so keep an eye out for that!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said two or three chapters... I meant one. And a short one at that. I'm sorry!
> 
> This felt like the right place to end. I may end up writing a few one-shots in this universe later, but for now this is the end. 
> 
> Thank you all for your love and support. This is my first finished WIP (and only the second one I've started) and it has been such a learning process for me. I'm so grateful to each and every one of you who left a kudos or commented.

Robb and Myrcella had been wed for a sennight, and after a small bump, Myrcella was settling into her new duties well. The people were still shifty when their new queen sat next to the king for court, but they had an affection for the wolf who was once a lion.

They had much more affection for Myrcella than they did for Sansa, strangely. She was a wolf, born and raised in the North, and yet she was only met with incivility at best and hostility at worst. She was glad to be heading south again. Winterfell was her home, but it was too crowded by far. 

Her mother had shared that Father was in the godswood, and Sansa intended on saying goodbye before they left in the morning. 

She nodded politely to the servants as she passed them, smiled at the men in the yard who were rebuilding the First Keep, but there were only shifted glances thrown back at her, and a coldness in the air that had nothing to do with the coming winter. 

Some of the men whispered after she was past. Lady Baratheon, she was still called, and occasionally _Targaryen_ in the most hushed of tones, but only when her wolf didn’t pace at her side, reminding them all how much of a Stark she was. 

She ran her fingers through Lady’s fur. When she was still a pup Sansa had guided her with a length of leather, but there was no need for that anymore. A direwolf was not a pet, and Lady only walked with her by choice. 

The snow crunched under her boots as she made her way to the weirwood, her father sitting beneath it as promised, Ice in hand. 

“May I join you, Father?” 

He glanced up once before nodding, returning to cleaning the impeccable blade with the precision gained from years of holding the same hilt. 

“Jon and I leave for the capital tomorrow,” she hedged, sitting on the bench next to him. 

“When the snow falls and the white winds blow…” he murmured, sliding Ice back into its sheath, and she sighed.

“I am not a lone wolf, Father. Jon will be with me.”

“I wish you would stay in the North. You did excellently as queen in the South. Robb wants me to sit his small council, but I fear I’m not very interested. You could sit in my stead.”

Sansa took his hand, noticing the dark bags under his eyes. “I would be happy to accept a position on Robb’s council, but I will be going back south. I made a promise, Father, one I intend to keep. We must keep the peace.”

“I dislike the idea of you in that snake’s nest again. You must keep Jon by your side, at all times.”

“Does that mean you approve of our marriage?” she asked in a small voice.

“I can’t say I understand it, or how you went about getting married, but I’m happy if you are happy.”

He drew Sansa into a hug and she burrowed into his chest, feeling very much like a child again. “It’s not forever. I will come home to visit.”

“Your mother would be terribly upset if you didn’t.” 

They were both thoroughly coated in snow then, the deep red leaves of the heart tree only protecting them so much. 

“I’m sure there’s a warm mug of cider waiting for us inside, Father.” Sansa rose to her feet and her father followed soon after, swinging Ice onto his back in its sheath. 

The capital awaited in the morning, but for that night, Sansa only wanted her family. 

She visited Bran and Rickon, Bran who told her with a strange confidence that she would be even happier once she went south and Rickon who only grabbed her face with sticky hands covered in jam and told her he would one day rule a keep because he was a _prince_ now. 

She had to wait for a quarter of an hour in Robb’s solar before he came out to meet her, hair disheveled and his jerkin unlaced at the top. She only raised her eyebrows briefly before settling into discussing what exactly she was authorized to do in the capital - namely, diplomacy and trade agreements. 

Margaery had left for Highgarden the day after Robb’s wedding. It might have seemed like she slunk away, tail between her legs, but Sansa knew the girl much better than that and was prepared for whatever scheme she had up her sleeve. 

“We should promise Arya to Willas, or Loras,” Robb suggested, running a hand haphazardly through his hair, and Sansa nearly laughed out loud.

“You could try, but I doubt Arya will agree to that. Securing trade through marriages only works if they actually wed. I had a better idea. Alys Karstark.”

“I don’t think the Tyrells would appreciate trading a king for a lady.”

“The Karstarks share blood with us, the blood of the First Men, and Alys is the ruling lady of her keep. I’ll arrange the betrothal and you will receive enough grain to feed our men,” Sansa explained patiently. 

It took another hour of discussions, but she left his solar with a lighter head and heavier heart, knowing her place in the politicking of the North.

From there she visiting the maester’s chambers, who confirmed all of her suspicions and promised to keep her secret. She was only two moons along, and would not show until long after they had been in the capital. 

Maester Luwin impressed on her the importance of not traveling while pregnant, in case it disturbed the babe, which she took with a smile and a grain of salt. She would not shirk her duties, not even for the tiny seed in her belly. 

She spent the remainder of the evening curled up next to her mother, embroidering a handkerchief with wolf after wolf, promising she would never forget her home. She would always be a Stark, and her children after her would always and only be wolves. 

When she finally returned to her chambers late that night, with her lord husband waiting for her in bed and the knowledge of the children they had to come, she felt a sense of belonging that she had missed. _The pack survives._


End file.
